


Reverberations

by wren_kt7oz



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Anti-Michael, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 105,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wren_kt7oz/pseuds/wren_kt7oz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I started my post-S5 fic, Homecoming, I came to the conclusion that it just wasn't possible to write about the characters as they were depicted in canon S5.  I hated that whole series (well, except for a few scenes) with a deep and abiding passion.  Even now, just on ten years later, just thinking about it infuriates me.  </p><p>So ... that was the genesis of Reverberations.</p><p>It's basically a re-write of canon S5, focusing primarily of course, on Brian and Justin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reverberations #1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm serious about the anti-Michael warning. I dislike him intensely. I disliked his whiney voice in the first few minutes of 101, and after that he gave me many reasons for the dislike to deepen into something approaching outright loathing. If you're wedded to the image of sweet well-meaning little Michael you will NOT like this fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It always seemed to me really dumb that they gave Brian syphilis and then had Justin freak out and go all holier-than-thou about it. Justin takes nearly as many risks as Brian. (I believe that we’re clearly meant to understand that he wasn’t out in LA reading Brothers Karamazov - he was getting laid.) So it seemed to me that this would have been a much more real and effective reason for Justin to re-evaluate his current lifestyle, and have saved him from coming across like a sanctimonious - and hypocritical - little prig.

Justin

I feel totally freaked out. I want to get under the shower and scrub and scrub and scrub. I promised Brian that I’d cook dinner, but I feel like I should be wearing gloves and a mask. I feel totally unclean, and I feel sick because I have to tell him. 

Tell him that his partner is infected. Tell him that while his partner was getting his dick sucked in LA, somewhere along the line, someone passed on a little gift.

Shit! Fuck! Double fuck!!

I hate this. 

And for some reason, I’m actually angry at Brian. Angry that with all his slutting around, this hasn’t happened to him. Or maybe it did, before we got together. But not since. Because he would have told me. So why did it happen to me?

Well, I know. I know that’s dumb. And immature. And just plain bitchy. But …

The truth is, I’m scared. 

I mean, syphilis is one thing. The doctor said that I’d only need the one shot that I had today to clear it up. But it could have been something much worse. 

It was so damned embarrassing. I felt like such an idiot when he started asking me all these questions about my sexual history. I was so proud of the fact that I have never (thanks to Brian) fucked without a condom, and then the doctor tells me that if a guy has syphilis sores in his mouth and he sucks your dick, he can give it to you that way. Or if you suck his, and he has sores on his cock …

Well, I guess I figured I’d notice sores on a cock - but inside someone’s mouth - who’s gonna know?

The doctor told me I should make them wear a condom when I suck them, and wear one myself if I’m the blowee. But … I can’t even imagine that. I mean … part of the pleasure of a blow job is the wetness and warmth around your cock. And who’d want to suck a mouthful of rubber?

I sigh.

I figure I’d better start getting dinner ready. I did promise, and Brian is going to be bitchy enough when he finds out that, thanks to me, he’s been exposed to this and has to have a blood test. Not to mention the drama of making a public service announcement to the whole of gay PA if he has it. 

At least I spotted the sore myself. If he had, he’d have been all over me for not taking more notice of that sort of stuff. Like he’s Mr Perfect.

Oh, fuck! Stop it, Justin. This isn’t about Brian. This is about you. You’re the one who went slutting around LA thinking you were God’s gift to the California boys, and this is the result. I mean, I guess it could have happened here. But it didn’t.

Well, not unless it was Brian who gave it to me. That’s a thought I guess. Then I could be angry with him. Sort of.

Although I have to admit that I’d be really pissed off if he got angry because he’d caught it from me.

Bi-polar, much?

Shit! He’s home.

***

Brian

He’s really quiet when I get home. I move into the kitchen and go to hug him and get a welcome home kiss after a hard day at the office and the little shit dodges and mumbles something about dinner being ready and I should change.

Fuck! If he’s going to turn into little Mary Housewife in some damned family sitcom, he can go back to fucking LA.

I give him one of my looks, and he ducks his head and won’t meet my eyes, so I know something’s up. I am really not in the mood for one of his drama princess moments tonight, but …

I stick my tongue in my cheek and look at him for a long moment so that he knows that I know something’s not quite kosher in our little nest, and then I figure that I might as well be comfortable for the grand dénouement, so I go up and change.

I decide that the best way to head off whatever hissy fit is coming is to be myself … so I put on my best “fuck me” outfit - the soft jeans that hug my ass just the way he likes, and a sleeveless black tee that always gets him hot.

I saunter down again barefoot and irresistible and he sees me and makes this face that tells me this is more serious than I thought because he looks … scared. And it takes a lot to make Justin look that way.

I wonder vaguely if Brett or some other Hollywood hotshot has been on the phone with another offer he can’t refuse, but then I think, well, fuck it! If he’s out of here, I might as well make the most of what time we’ve got left. So I smile at him and go get a bottle of wine - a good red that slides down smooth as silk and you only feel the kick half an hour later when you realize that it’s taken your legs out from under you.

He glares at the wine as if it has personally insulted him, and then the glare turns to something else, and damned if he doesn’t look as if he might burst into fucking tears any minute. He’s got me scared now, and I go over and take the salad and the bread (what about “no carbs after seven” does he not understand?) and put it on the table, while I try to work out if I should just demand to know what the hell is up his ass, or leave it till he’s settled down a bit and can maybe just tell me calmly without all the drama that I sense is hovering over our shoulders.

He takes that decision away from me by blurting out just as I put the dishes down that he went to the doctor today.

Those words turn something in my blood to ice, and I look over at him and start to feel sick. Fuck! No, no, no! I can’t deal with this. Not if it’s anything bad. I can’t. I can’t fucking see him in another fucking hospital bed, hooked up to all those damned machines and looking less and less like anything faintly resembling the brat I knew and … well, the impossible little fucking twat that …

I can’t do that again. I can not.

“I have syphilis.”

***

Justin

For a moment I think that he’s going to hit me. I really do. He gets this look on his face that scares the shit out of me. Then he sort of gulps. And then the fucker laughs.

“Jesus, Justin!” he gasps out. “I thought it was something …”

Serious, he was going to say. Like this is nothing. I want to scream at him. I want to take the fucking dinner and throw it all over him. I want … I want …

I want him to take me in his arms and tell me it’s alright. That I’m not some sort of diseased whore. That …

I have never wanted more to hear him say that he loves me. Never needed it more. Not even when I was in the hospital, desperate to see him. Praying every day that today would be the day. But he never came. And he won’t give me any sympathy now. I should know by now not to expect it. And I don’t.

But that doesn’t stop me needing it.

Well, fuck him!

I can get along without it. I’ll just have to. As usual. Just suck it up, Taylor. You know who he is. And he sure as hell isn’t going to change just because you’ve got something that he doesn’t see as any more serious than a fucking cold.

So suck it up. And keep your eyes off his ass, and his cock, that’s cradled so lovingly by those jeans, because you can’t have any. Not for a week at least. 

But he can. And as soon as he realises, he’ll be out the door. Off to Babylon or the Baths or even just down to the news guy on the corner. He can get it anywhere. And he will.

This is life with Brian Kinney.

So learn to live with it.

***

Brian

It doesn’t take me long to get over my fit of laughter. He’s glaring at me now like he fucking caught it from me. 

Well, he didn’t. I don’t think.

Fuck! I’ll have to go down and have a test myself tomorrow. 

I almost start glaring back at him, but then I remembered how freaked out he’d looked when I got home. I remember that look of fear in his eyes, and I can’t help it, I can feel the anger slipping away from me, and all that’s left is the relief.

I go over to him and take the damned casserole dish out of his hands before he can hurl it at me. I put it down on the counter, and then stand looking down at him. For a moment he ducks his head, and then, ballsy little fucker that he his, he tilts his head up and looks me right in the eye.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. 

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him to me, so that I can rest my forehead against his.

“It’s okay. It’s not that big a deal.”

Wrong thing to say, because his eyes, that had started to go all cloudy, are suddenly hard and angry again.

He pushes me away and spits, “Why aren’t I surprised that you would say that? I mean … it’s just a little STD, nothing to worry about, right?”

“Justin …”

“Brian, it might not be any big deal to you. Fuck! for all I know you’ve been through this a dozen times. But it’s a big fucking deal to me!”

I go to reach for him again and he pulls himself out of my hands. 

“I’m diseased!” he practically shouts. “I’m infected. I’m …”

“Do you want me to get you a fucking leper’s bell?”

He glares at me again, picks up the dish and I’m ready to duck when he turns and takes it to the table, crashing it down in a way that had better not have left a mark on the wood.

I come up behind him and run my hands lightly down his arms.

“Justin … I just meant …”

“I know what you meant!” he snaps.

“No,” I say coldly. I’m getting angry myself now, and trying to tell myself to calm down. This is my little drama princess I’m dealing with and letting things escalate into full blown melodrama won’t help anyone. “No, you obviously don’t.”

I don’t say anything more, just sit down at the table and pour myself a glass of wine. I start to pour his, but then realize that he shouldn’t have any if he’s been given antibiotics, so I get up and ask if he wants some water. He’s serving the meal by now, and obviously fighting back tears and drama, but he nods, so I fetch a bottle from the fridge, open it and pour it into his wine glass.

He puts my food in front of me, and then sits down.

“I thought it was something …”

“Serious,” he says snarkily.

I look at him for a moment, and then say, “You’re talking to a man who was told a year or so ago that he had cancer.”

He looks at me then, wide-eyed, and I see him flush before he looks down at his plate. After a moment his eyes meet mine again and he says, “Brian, I … I’m sorry.”

“You scared the shit out of me, Justin,” I state frankly. “I don’t …”

I break off, and look away myself this time.

His hand reaches across the table and touches mine. I move it a little, just turning it slightly, and he takes the hint, and clasps his fingers round mine.

“I just feel so … dirty,” he says.

***

Justin

I don’t know what I expected him to do. What I thought he could do to make me feel better.

But he doesn’t really do anything at first. Just sits and nods. And then he takes my hand and pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. The back, and then the palm, and then he starts licking my fingers, and sucking them into his mouth.

At first I kinda feel scared. And then almost angry, because he’s getting me hard, and there’s nothing I can do about it. But then out of nowhere, I feel my eyes filling with tears, because I finally hear what he’s saying to me.

I get up and go around to him and he pulls me down into his arms, and then, somehow it is alright. Well, as alright as it can be, anyway. Because he isn’t making me feel stupid, or like some dumb fucking kid who doesn’t know enough not to keep safe.

“You’ll have to get tested,” I mumble into his neck.

“I will,” he says softly, nuzzling at my ear.

“And I had to have a HIV test as well,” I tell him. I’m trying not to freak about that, but the doc said that I should be okay, as long as I didn’t suck anyone while I had sores in my mouth.

“I know,” Brian says, kissing his way along my jaw line. 

“I’m not allowed to have sex for a week,” I wail softly as his lips slide towards mine.

He grins at me, the bastard. And then says, “Not even long slow deep wet kisses that last for three days.”

And kisses me on the tip of my nose.

Which makes me want to hit him - partly because he’s right, and partly because he’s deliberately teasing me, the fucker.

Ever since I first heard that line when I was a kid it’s given me the shivers. I wanted that. Wanted those sorts of kisses. I never knew that I’d find anyone like Brian who could really give them to me. Never knew what it would be like to have to go without them. He knew when I made that rule, that that’s what I was thinking of. Dumb ass that I was. 

And he knows all that, I actually told him in one of my madder moments. So it’s a definite tease, and I think a little payback is in order. I move slightly, rubbing myself across his cock. I feel it start to harden and nuzzle into his neck again, finding that spot on his throat that he loves to have sucked. 

I feel him squirm under me, and hear his breath catch.

“It’s so awful,” I say.

Then I kiss his chin.

“And, of course, until you’re sure that you haven’t got it …”

I let my voice trail away as I nibble his ear.

He gives a sort of growl and then, as I kiss his cheek, and then his chin again, he laughs.

“I guess we’re stuck with each other, tonight, then, huh?”

I laugh back at him, and nod.

For tonight, anyway, I think, For tonight I have you home here with me.

He kisses the corner of my mouth. 

“Let’s eat,” he says. “I might as well put something tasty in my mouth, since I can’t use it for anything more interesting.”

Before I get up off his lap, I turn his face to mine, and say softly, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t thank me,” he says. “For all we know, I gave it to you.”

I shrug. “I don’t think so. And anyway, that’s not the point.”

I get up and walk around to my chair again. I sit down and raise my glass of water to him. He looks at me for a long minute and then raises his own glass. The wine glows deeply crimson, and for a moment I’m distracted, imagining it staining his lips, turning them from their natural color to an even darker red. I want to paint them. To try once more to capture on canvas the feel of them against my skin.

His eyebrow raises, and I realize that I’ve been staring at him.

“I thought you’d make fun of me,” I say. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. Not really. I didn’t think you’d understand.”

He shrugs; he doesn’t like hearing that. I don’t blame him.

“But you really came through for me,” I finish. “You really helped me, Brian. Even if you don’t understand why I feel so horrible about this.”

“Justin …” he starts. He breaks off, and then says, “Of course I understand. It’s just … that’s the way I deal with things. To belittle them. Take away their importance. That’s just …” 

“I know,” I say. “But this time you didn’t. You helped me.”

He shrugs again, and looks at me as if he doesn’t know whether to be insulted by what I’m saying, or to take it at face value.

I smile at him. “Brian, you never cease to amaze me.”

That brings a sort of grin, the tongue in the cheek smirk that I know and love.

“Here’s to amazement,” he says.

I nod, and as I toast him, I think that I must try to remember this moment. Must try to remember not always to expect the worst from him. Because, when it really counts, he comes through. He always comes through. I have to remember that. And give my partner a little more respect.

“So, how do you plan to entertain me?” he asks.

I hesitate only a moment, before going for it. “Well,” I say. “It’s been a long time since you posed for me.”

He laughs, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he blushes. Then he smiles at me, and raises his glass again. I don’t know what we’re drinking to, but I raise mine as well. Whatever we’re toasting, we’re doing it together. And that’s all that matters to me tonight.


	2. Reverberations #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to set the scene - in 504 Justin and Brian were at Mikey’s infamous dinner party. In 505, Brian found out he had syphilis, Justin and Daph were babysitting JR and Brian saw Brandon for the first time. He came home, having survived his period of enforced celibacy, to celebrate with his lover, only to find a very cool and aloof Justin who insists that he can’t come to bed because he’s “working”. The work is a sketch of a diseased Rage with sores all over his face. In the Reverb universe, however, it is Justin who has been diagnosed with syphilis. From there, I thought things might go a bit like this.

Justin

I was really nervous about coming with Brian tonight. I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I shouldn’t be around Gus. Like he might catch something from me. But Brian said that if I wouldn’t go, then he wouldn’t either, and I know how much he’s been looking forward to it. Even though he’d never say that, of course.

He wasn’t joking when he told me before I left for LA that he wanted to spend more time with Gus. Since then, he baby sits him at least one night a week. Usually at Lindsay’s place. Which is okay, although it would be nice to have him at the loft. But I guess it’s not really a child friendly environment. The hard floors, the white furniture, the whole lay out of the place with the steps up and down to the bedroom … it’s just not all that suitable for kids. I think we could make it work without doing a lot, but Brian I guess feels more comfortable not having to deal with all that. 

Anyway, we’re here now, and as soon as we hit the buzzer, we hear Gus’ voice shrieking “Dadda! Dadda!”

I sneak a quick glance at Brian and he’s almost blushing. I think he finds it hard to believe that his son really loves him, that Gus looks forward to spending time with him. It’s not something that he ever felt about his father, I guess. Although of course he doesn’t talk about that. 

As soon as Linds opens the door, Gus is clutching at Brian’s legs. Brian picks him up and tosses him in the air, and Gus squeals with delight. Then he wraps his arms around his father’s neck and gives him a big sloppy kiss. 

He’s so gorgeous. He really does look a lot like Brian. His eyes are darker - more like Lindsay’s, but they’re the same shape as Brian’s, and he has Brian’s long lashes. And Brian’s mouth, I think.

He goes a bit shy when he sees me. Then Brian whispers something to him and he seems to remember who I am. He leans across and gives me a big kiss too and then Linds is babbling about needing to go or she’ll be late to her dinner meeting and I go down with her to the car. She hasn’t got a car now, Mel has theirs. So we’d arranged that one of us would drive her. Amazingly, Brian agreed to let me. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’s let me drive his baby, and they’ve all been when he was too tweaked to know better, but tonight he actually handed over the keys with no fuss.

He won’t admit it, but it’s because he actually wants to spend that extra little bit of time with Gus. And it’s a bonus that for a little while it’s just the two of them. 

He didn’t want the whole evening with Gus on his own, the thought of that freaks him out a bit, because he’s still convinced that he can’t do anything right as a father. But for half an hour or so, he’ll really enjoy having his Sonnyboy all to himself.

I wish I could get him to realize that no one really knows how to be a great parent. That it’s something he can learn to do, just like everyone else does. But it’s hard for him to believe that when he has such bad role models in his own parents, and when people like Melanie give him shit all the time for every single thing he does. As if she’s so goddammed perfect. 

Or Lindsay either, for that matter.

I mean, Lindsay’s been a good friend to me in some ways. Well, I guess they both have. But Linds has been a very bad friend to Brian in a lot of ways, and most of all where Gus is concerned. She’s always let Mel say whatever she wanted to about Brian - even in front of Gus. And you would have thought that, knowing how Mel feels about Brian, Linds would either have chosen another father for her child or else really laid down the law about how Mel had to back off and keep her thoughts about Brian to herself.

Instead of which, she’s played it all ways. Demanded money from Brian for Gus, made him sign away his rights to his son, guilted him out over never spending time with Gus and at the same time let Mel go off on him every time he tried to. And it turns out that they never did make Mikey sign over his rights to JR, so now he gets to have joint custody of her, while all Brian is left with is the crumbs. 

I don’t like any of them very much at the moment.

Because Brian is hurting over all of this. And if people think he isn’t, they just don’t know him. He signed over his rights eventually because he thought it would be the best thing for Gus. That it would get Mel and Linds back together and that would give Gus the happy stable family that he never had. And it nearly killed him to do it.

Now, Mikey has joint custody of his daughter, Brian has nothing, and Mel and Linds aren’t together anyway.

I’m trying to fight back these thoughts while I open the car doors. All I have to do is drive Linds to the gallery, and it’s not that far. 

But then, as she’s doing up her seat belt, she says, “What on earth happened at Michael’s dinner party? I saw him yesterday and he’s really upset with Brian.”

And that does it.

By the time I get through telling her what I think of Michael and the little ambush he set up with that pair of totally pretentious twats that he’s now so cozy with; and then tell her what I think of him for not showing up at the special night at Babylon that he damned well knew Brian arranged just to please him, (let alone that he couldn’t even be bothered making a phone call to let Brian know he wouldn’t be there, despite the fact that they’d had a deal, and that’s the only reason that Brian had showed up at his fucking dinner party in the first place), Linds is staring at me.

“Justin,” she says in that well-bred little voice of hers that is meant to be so superior and soothing, “I just think that Michael is growing up. And he’d like to see Brian grow up, too.”

I almost let her have both barrels then. But I have to think of Brian, and how I can’t fuck things up for him and make it difficult for him to see Gus, so I fall back on being all WASPy superior myself and say instead, “Well, if his idea of being ‘grown up’ is to totally forget who he is, and take every word that his new friends say as coming down straight from above on tablets of stone, and sneering at all his old friends because they don’t agree, just like he did when he was with Dr Dave, then we have very different ideas about that.

“To me, that’s behaving like a kid in school who wants to be in with whoever he thinks are the in crowd. Who’s so desperate to be in with the in crowd that he’ll totally change who he really is just to conform to what these assholes tell him he should be like.”

“Justin, you have to admit …”

“Lindsay … you just don’t get it. Brian … he looks after you, he looks after Gus, he looks after Michael, and me, and Deb, and even Ted and Emmett. He runs his own company which he’s built up from nothing into a major player in the advertising world in just over a year. But because his lifestyle isn’t what you think it should be, you and Mel, and now even Michael, sneer at him for not being grown up. Well …” 

I want so badly to tell her she can get fucked, but I can’t. I just can’t. For Brian’s sake. So I take a deep breath and say, “I think you’re wrong. I think you’re just about as wrong as you can be.

“And,” I go on, a little recklessly, because I just can’t help this bit spilling out, “coming from someone who totally messed up her own relationship, her damned marriage, even, for a quick fuck, from two people who lied to nearly all their friends for over six months about the fact that they’d split up, and from a guy who makes a living selling comic books, and can only do that because Brian funded it for him, I’d say that you’re all pretty damned hypocritical. Because none of you seem to me to be all that fucking grown up yourselves.”

We’re at the gallery now, and I’ve pulled the car into the curb and for a moment we sit there in silence. I’m looking straight ahead, but from the corner of my eye I see Lindsay staring at me.

I wait for a moment more till I stop shaking, and then I get out the car and come around to open her door for her. It’s not an easy car to get in and out of, especially in a short skirt and heels like she’s wearing tonight.

She lets me help her out, and I can tell that she’s thinking about saying something more, but in the end, she must decide that her best defense is to be terribly WASP and well mannered and gracious and she just hugs me.

“Brian’s very lucky to have you,” she says.

I shake it off. “I’m the lucky one,” I mumble, thinking about how Brian held me last night, how he made me feel so much better about myself, and thinking about the way they all treat him. Remembering all that makes me feel ashamed that I don’t stick up for him more often. Not that he’d thank me for it. But still …

“We just want him to be happy,” she says.

“No you don’t,” I answer. “You just want him to live his life the way that you do. But he’s not you. He’ll never be like you. And you all need to just get over it.”

Especially you and Michael, I think to myself. 

And I don’t speak the thoughts that are really going through my mind. The real truth as I see it. Which is that they actually like Brian to be fucked up and miserable so that they can feel so superior, and so smugly saint-like that they put up with “that asshole Brian”. They want his life to be a mess so that their own don’t look like such fucking pathetic compromises.

They don’t have the courage to be him. They don’t have the balls or the brains or the stamina. They couldn’t cope with half the pressures that they put on him with their constant neediness and demands.

But they sneer at him every time he seeks any sort of escape from all their bullshit.

Even when that’s me. Maybe especially when it’s me.

I know that as far as Brian is concerned they still see me as some pathetic little boy who feeds Brian’s ego, and buys into his lifestyle because he has no choice. And that gives them yet another reason to snipe and sneer at Brian - because they’re all just waiting for me to “grow up” and leave him.

Well, fuck them! They don’t know anything about Brian and me. Nothing. And they’ve got no fucking right to judge us. To judge him. Because he’s worth more than all of them put together. They are so fucking pathetic!

I pull the car up outside Lindsay’s apartment block and have to take a few deep breaths before I go in there. 

There’s no way that I’m going to let Brian see how mad she made me. I’m not some pathetic little faggot who can’t go even one round with a damned lesbian without turning into a full on drama queen. I am not.

*****

Brian

He’s really quiet when he gets back from dropping Lindsay off and I wonder what sort of lovely little chat they had in the car. He’s not talking about it, so I’m guessing she was sticking her well bred little nose right where it doesn’t belong, and trying to have a serious talk with him about Big Bad Brian.

If I know Linds, she’s either been at the “is Brian treating you alright, sweetie?” line, or else she’s been on at him about how badly behaved I’ve been to everyone else. Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all. Even Mikey. If he wants to go back to playing the “nice little housewife” like he did with Dr Dave, and mixing with the same sort of pretentious assholes that he did back then, well … fuck him. Maybe if he’s gone back to that, it really is what he wants. 

I have to admit that I’d find all that easier to deal with if it didn’t mean that he turns into this sanctimonious little prick who seems to feel that his new fake-hetero status gives him the right to sneer at me and my lifestyle without even a thought that that might fucking hurt me. 

But I’m not gonna think about that tonight. Tonight, I’m playing with my Sonnyboy … well, now that Justin’s back, I’m playing with both my boys. We’re gonna play trucks and build a cushion fort and we’re gonna eat together and fall asleep in front of the TV together like real men.

And then we’ll carry Gus to bed, and then Justin and I will make out in front of the TV till Mommy gets back and I can take my other Sonnyboy home. Not to fuck, sadly. We still have to wait another twenty four hours or so.

But … we can find other ways to amuse ourselves, and maybe actually get a full night’s sleep for once. 

*****

Justin

I was going to tell Brian about the conversation with Lindsay, but really, there’s no way to do that without hurting him even more because she seemed to feel it necessary to weigh in on Michael’s side, so I keep my mouth shut.

We play with Gus for a while, and then we have our dinner. Gus had already had his before we came, so he just has some milk. Then we all pile onto the couch together and watch a DVD. Some Disney thing. Gus doesn’t actually last very long before he crashes. Linds had already given him his bath, so he’s all ready to be tucked into bed.

Brian carries him to his room, and after I pull back the covers, he lowers Gus gently into the bed. He tucks him in and we stand looking at him a moment. I turn to walk out of the room, and pretend that I don’t see when Brian bends down to kiss his son goodnight. I feel tears washing my eyes which is just ridiculous. So I blink them back, and go to make us both a coffee. 

It’s a long time later, and we’ve already watched one movie and are debating about whether it’s worth starting another one because Lindsay should be back soon, when the phone rings. It’s Linds to say that JR is ill and is in hospital. Linds is on her way there now and wants to know if we can stay with Gus till she gets home. Like that’s something that she really needs to ask. Brian tells her sure, and all that, and gets off the phone. He has a strange look on his face and I wonder what he’s thinking. It’s sort of sad and a little bit vicious at the same time.

He doesn’t say anything, though, and it’s not till the next day that I find out from Deb that Mikey was supposed to be with JR, but they had some thing at Hunter’s school, so, instead of arranging with Mel to swap nights or something, they left JR with those new friends of theirs. Apparently, the assholes realized JR wasn’t well, that she had a fever, but they couldn’t get through to Mikey’s cell because he had it turned off at the school. And of course they didn’t know who else to call. So eventually one of them drove down to the school to get Michael and then he called Mel and Linds and apparently there was some big scene at the hospital with Michael and Melanie snapping and snarling at each other.

Honestly, I don’t blame Mel for being pissed at Michael. I mean, JR’s being passed around between the three of them No one gets to spend much time with her as it is, so if Michael couldn’t be with her, then why couldn’t he just leave her with Mel for the night? And to leave her with someone that Mel doesn’t even know, and, knowing he was going to have his phone off, to not even leave another emergency number … that’s just beyond dumb. 

Well, it’s not just dumb, though. It’s Mikey being the selfish spiteful little shit that he can be. And I know that side of him better than anyone, I think. I will never forget the way he treated me when I was first with Brian, the way he’d sneer at me, and the nasty little things that he said. I won’t forget the way he was so quick to go running to Brian about me and Ethan. Or the things that he said to me after Brian and I split up. The way he implied that I’d only been with Brian for his money. 

Most of all, I won’t forget him breaking his word to me and letting Brian know that he knew about the cancer. And dropping me right in it by telling Brian how he’d found out. Especially when he was the one who’d insisted that we couldn’t let Brian know we knew. If I’d told Brian myself, if I’d gone to him and discussed it with him, I could have saved us both so much hurt and heartache. But, like a total fool, I listened to Michael. Because I was so shaken, so fucking scared, that I couldn’t think straight. And I forgot that Mikey is mentally and emotionally a fucking thirteen year old, and listened to him because he was the “grown up”.

Well, never again. He is never going to fool me into giving him that much credit again.

People think that because I work with Michael on Rage that I’ve forgotten all that. But I haven’t. I never will. Rage is business. He’s my business partner. That doesn’t mean that I have to like him, or even respect him. Just like Brian with Ryder, and with Gardner Vance. I keep my mouth shut about what I really think about Michael for Brian’s sake, and for Deb’s. But I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten any of it.

*****

Brian

So much for my early night.

It’s nearly three o’clock before we get home. And then we just fall into bed and go to sleep.

But my dreams are restless. Finally I toss myself awake and know I have no chance of getting back to sleep. I get up and take myself down the steps and over to the window and stare into my reflection in the glass, trying to see my future in the face that looks palely back at me.

What if that had been Gus?

What if I’d had to rush Gus off to the hospital?

Fuck!

The Munchers would never have trusted me with him again.

I have to be more careful. I should make sure that it’s not just Justin and I with Gus. I need to make sure that nothing happens to him when he’s with me.

I’m not Mikey. I don’t have any rights to my own kid. I have to rely on how generous Linds is feeling. And if ever she gets back with Mel …

Well, you can bet that the shit that they’ve all gone through because Mikey suddenly decided he wanted a full share of his kid is going to backfire on me. Because the courts have made it so that Mel can’t do a fucking thing about having to share JR with him, and that’s going to make her really put her lesbian boots into me. Because she can. Because I let her. Because, for one moment in my life I was a total fool and started to believe in happy families and that’s what I wanted for my son. And I was even prepared to bow out of his life to give it to him.

Yeah, well, that worked out real well, didn’t it?

Now they’re all sharing JR, and they all have a right to that and I’m standing here staring into the darkness, praying to any God that will hear me that I don’t fuck anything up so that they take away the tenuous little bit of connection I do have with my son. 

And scared as hell that if that had been Gus tonight, they probably wouldn’t have ever let me near him again, and everyone would have said that it served me right.

Why?

Why when it happens to someone else is it acceptable, is it all just “well, kids get sick”, but if it happened when he was with me … I’d be the biggest asshole on the planet?

I try not to let all this fucking stuff get to me, but sometimes …

Sometimes it’s hard.

I don’t know what I’ve done in my life that’s so fucking terrible that everyone thinks I’m such a piece of shit. Even my “best friend”.

I just don’t know.

But I guess they must all be right. I mean, it’s not like it’s anything new. My Mom thinks I’m going to burn in Hell, my father told me I should be the one dying, not him, my sister thinks I’m capable of molesting her fucking son, my best friend won’t even give me the time of day any more.

They can’t all be wrong, can they?

Even Justin. He’s not saying anything, but I can see the wheels going round in his head.

This little STD of his has really freaked him out. So he’s starting to feel like … like he deserved to get sick, because of all his playing around out in LA.

And that means it won’t be long before he’s thinking that I’d deserve it, too, if it happened to me. In fact, he’ll probably wind up like my old man, thinking that it should have happened to me. Because we all know I’m the slut of the family, so I’d deserve any thing I get.

Which is fucked. Nobody “deserves” to get sick. Saying you deserve to catch some STD because you shouldn’t be having sex, especially when you’re as careful about it as we are, is like saying you deserve to get food poisoning if you just happen to pick up some bad prawns. Like eating seafood is something that deserves punishment. To think about sex and STDs that way is the same to me. It’s nuts.

But he’s still thinking he deserved it. I can see it in his eyes.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved as when my doc said I didn’t have it. Because I don’t know if either of us could have handled the chance that I’d given it to him. I’m not sure that either of us could have forgiven me for that. And I don’t think we would have survived it.

Just like I don’t think I would survive if anything serious happened to Gus while he was with me. They would never forgive me for it, none of them. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.

Which brings me back to where I started … I just have to be careful that we’re not alone with Gus, Justin and I - or at least, not for very long.

Because I can’t risk losing him. That’s one chance I’m just not prepared to take.

*****

Justin

I can’t believe it. I can not fucking believe it.

He just … he just walked out on me. Gave me one of his full on Brian Kinney death glares and just walked out of here like … like … like he used to. Like he did when I was nothing. When I felt that I was nothing.

He just fucking walked out.

I was just … last night was so good … the three of us. I loved being with Gus. He was so cute and funny when we were playing with him, and Brian was just loving it. And I loved watching the two of them laughing together. Then we all curled onto the couch. Brian was sitting at the end, and I was beside him, leaning into him, and Gus was sort of sitting on my knee, but leaning more and more across Brian. He finally fell asleep more or less lying across our legs. 

After we got Lindsay’s phone call, Brian went to check on him a couple of times - like he was afraid that Gus might have caught whatever JR has. And once Gus woke up and cried out. Brian went straight in to him, so quickly you could almost see the carpet burning under his feet, but all Gus wanted was a drink. I fetched him some water and he took a few sips leaning against Brian, still only half awake, and then he sort of patted Brian’s face and said something that sounded like “Sleepy Dadda.”

Then he just flopped down again, and went back to sleep just like that. 

Brian had this totally … beautiful look on his face. He’s always maddeningly attractive. But when he’s with Gus, something in him softens and he … his real beauty, the beauty that he hides inside, that part of him shines through and transforms him into something so radiant, so beautiful that it hurts to look at him.

I love seeing him like that. 

So, this morning, I suggested that maybe we could ask Linds if we could have Gus overnight sometimes. Maybe even for a weekend.

And Brian …

He glared at me, really, really glared at me, like he was furious with me. Like I’d suggested something totally and completely fucked. Then he just snatched up his brief case and walked out.

Fuck!

I mean … I know that he doesn’t want to turn into Mikey. I get that. 

But I don’t see why wanting to spend more time with Gus is so terrible. Why wanting to have his son here, in our home, is such a fucking horrible idea that he won’t even discuss it. That he just flies out of here as if I’d suggested we go up to fucking Canada and get married.

I don’t get it at all. I don’t get him when he’s like this.

And sometimes I feel like I never will.

I don’t want what Mikey has. I don’t. I just want us to be able to spend some more time with his kid.

Why is that so fucking terrible? Why does he make me feel like I’m really fucking things up, just be suggesting it?

Why is this stuff such a fucking big deal to him?

I don’t want the picket fence. I don’t. 

I like having the freedom to just be us.

Although things lately have made me realize what a two edged sword that freedom is. I still can’t believe that I got syphilis. What if my Mom found out? How would she feel?

I don’t want to even think about that.

And I don’t want to think about what I’m going to do once the ban on sex is over. I don’t really want to dive back into the pool right now. Although I know Brian is expecting me to. We’re supposed to be going to Babylon tonight.

Well, Brian is usually there, of course, and I go most nights for an hour or two. But I don’t … I just don’t want to go back into that pattern again. Of hooking up with someone just to have a quick fuck, or maybe a blow job and then coming back here to be with Brian.

It’s not that I want to settle down into some boring old married couple. It isn’t. But …

I think I want more than this. I think I want to at least be able to believe that one day we’ll have more than this. 

I know that we’re partners now. I know that everyone sees us as some sort of couple now, even if they don’t think it counts because we’re not monogamous, and we’re not renovating or digging a garden or all that shit. Like that’s what makes you a “real” couple. Which is fucked.

But I think that I want more. I just don’t know exactly what. 

It’s not monogamy. Well, not from Brian. I don’t expect it from him and that’s okay.

But I think that I want to be able to cut back on outside partners without him thinking it’s a big deal, or like a criticism of him, or something. And without other people thinking that.

And I know that I want to believe that somewhere in the future, we might settle down more. We might want to buy a house, or raise a kid together, or … something. I don’t know what. Just something.

It’s not what I want right now.

But I don’t want to feel that the door is completely shut on that either.

And, with Brian …

I think it is.

I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to have those things if I’m with him. Worse, I don’t think I’m ever going to be allowed to think that one day I might want those things, without him going ape-shit over me thinking that way.

I think … I’m afraid …

That if I stay with Brian, he’s never going to want to change from how we are now. And how we are now is fine. For now.

But I hate feeling that it’s all we’re ever going to be, all we’re ever going to have.

I don’t know what I want. But I do know that I need to feel that it’s okay to want … something. Something more, something that when it comes along will be better.

But …

Brian doesn’t want more. Brian won’t ever want more than this. Brian doesn’t want to ever change.

And if I stay with Brian, I won’t ever be able to change either.

And I just don’t know how to live with knowing that.

I don’t know if I can.

And I love him so much that I don’t know how to live with the thought of not being with him either.


	3. Reverberations #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up to two plot points that were key drivers in the genesis of this story - the competition arc and the fact that Justin walked out - again. I seriously think that the canon writing was so tired and impoverished that the only dramatic tension they could think up with the BJ coupling was to split them up (over essentially the same issues) and reunite them over and over. That dynamic formed the major story arc for BJ in most of S2, more than half of S3, the end of S4 and twice over in S5. Well, not in my universe. I think there's plenty of opportunity for drama just because of the dynamics of their whole extended "family".

Brian

I know I shouldn’t have freaked out on him this morning, but fuck! He has to get over the idea that we’re ever going to be some fake-hetero couple. And if he can’t …

I don’t want to think about that. 

He promised. He fucking sat in that chair in my goddamned office and told me he wouldn’t do this to me again. He wouldn’t make me feel like some sort of retarded asshole because I won’t do romance and all that shit. He told me he knew what to expect from me. He told me he didn’t need all the trappings; that I was enough.

But now, yet again, I’m not. I’m not enough for him. I’m not what he wants. He wants … I don’t know what he wants now. Ben, maybe. Someone like Ben, anyway. Built but boring.

Fuck!

I’m such a fucking coward - scared of every fucking …

But I could lose Gus. I could lose him. If I push too hard, for too much. If anything goes wrong. If Lindsay needs someone to blame for anything. If she meets someone else. If … so many ways. I could lose my son. 

I’m entitled to be scared of that.

And Justin … if I don’t go along with all his little fantasies, I could lo …

Shit!

When do I get a break here? I took him in. I let him go. I took him back. I hung on during his little Hollywood adventure. I kept the moving in offer on the table. I took him back again. I tried not to feel like second prize. I tried to shrug aside the feeling, the fear, that if things in Hollywood had worked out, he would never have come back to the Pitts. I tried to keep …

Alright, there’ve been times when I’ve been a total asshole. I know that. But I’m fucking trying. I’m trying to believe he’s not just going to take off again as soon as something better comes along. And all I get …

Well, mainly, I get Justin. And that’s enough for me.

But will I ever be enough for him? That’s the question, boys and girls.

Why do I so often feel that I’m just a habit with him? Something he reverts to when he’s not all that interested in anything else. And a bad habit at that. One that someday, probably sooner rather than later, he’s going to break.

Fuck it!

Tonight I’m going to put in some hours at Babylon. And if I can find someone to suck my cock, and make me feel for just a few minutes that I’m what they want, what they really want - even if it’s just for as long as it takes to get off, then that’s going to be better than how I’m going to feel at home.

*****

Justin

I get home from Daph’s and find a message on the phone at the loft that he’s going to be “working” at Babylon tonight. Well, fuck him! 

He is such a coward. He deliberately rang the loft and not my cell so that he didn’t have to talk to me.

I don’t know what his problem is. He should know by now that I don’t want us to turn into a nice suburban couple any more than he does. But how does spending time with your son equate to becoming one of the “dickless fags” he despises so much? I know he has major issues about “family” and all of that stuff. I might not know the details, 'cos he never fucking wants to discuss it, but I get the general picture in 3-D technicolor glory. But does he have to let that damage rule every damned aspect of our life together? He behaves as if our life, this life we live together is so fragile that even the smallest change will blow it to pieces. 

How the fuck can we live our whole lives that way? How can I?

Or maybe I’m just reading this all wrong and it’s really about the little surprise I brought back with me from LA. Maybe it’s really that he just doesn’t want to be with me right now. Can’t stand to be with someone who’s diseased or …

Oh, shit!

*****

Brian

It’s an average sort of night at Babylon. Same old, same old. There’s some hot new stud who thinks that he can walk in and have any guy he wants, can bring the whole of Babylon to their knees to worship his cock. He’s alright, I guess. But I’ve never really gone for that type.

I check him out, but he backs off like the chicken-shit I suspect him to be. He makes out like he doesn’t want it, but I know better. I’ve been where he is, and I know exactly what he’s afraid of. He knows that there’s no fucking way I’m going to bottom for him, and he knows everyone else here knows it too. So he’s too afraid of risking his “reputation” to take me on. 

His loss.

Besides, he’s not that hot. Not nearly as hot as what I’ve got at home.

It’s late. And I’m tired. Fucking tired of playing these games. I’m too old to start playing chicken with some wanna-be hot shot. I don’t have to any more.

I’m going home.

*****

Justin

I try watching TV and compulsively tidying the loft and deliberately putting things where I know he won’t think to look for them, but the anger just keeps simmering. Finally, I find myself sitting sketching out all my anger and frustration into a new episode of Rage. 

In my little Rage world, it’s not JT who is diseased. It’s Rage himself. And it’s not so much that he’s caught something, as that something is warping his powers, so that instead of being able to hold all his inner demons at bay, they’re spilling out of him from every pore So everyone can see the poor, fucked up mess that he really is.

Just when I’ve nearly finished a lovely drawing of Rage with pus-filled sores all over his face, he walks in.

He comes up behind me, so I quickly flip to another page.

“Your compulsory time out must be up by now,” he says, bending down to nuzzle into my neck. “Wanna fool around?”

Fuck him!

We can’t just fuck all of our problems away like this. 

Besides … I still don’t feel clean. I still don’t know if it’s safe. I just don’t want to right now.

I shrug away from him. 

“I’m working,” I say.

I feel him stand up. I hear him, I swear I hear him pull his lips between his teeth the way that he does while he’s thinking exactly how he’s going to respond to something. Like he can’t ever just come out and say what he thinks without looking at it from every possible angle first.

Then I hear him walk away.

I sit there for what seems to be a long time before I realize that is not something I want to hear, not something I ever want to hear. 

Whatever’s going on with him, whatever’s going on with me, we’ll figure it out. But we can’t do that if all we do is close off to each other. 

I get up, finally, and follow him.

*****

Brian

I should have fucking stayed at Babylon. This game’s just as tired, and at the end of it, I don’t even get laid.

I leave him to sulk and go take a shower. I’ve been in there a few minutes when the shower door slides open, and then he’s there with me. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes some of the shower gel onto his hands and starts wiping them over my chest.

Whatever little drama has been going on in his head seems to be over - for now, at least.

I guess the only thing to do is make the most of it, make the most of him. It looks like he’s not going to be around much longer. Feels that way, at least. Feels like he’s gearing up to leave me. Again.

I don’t want to deal with those thoughts. I won’t.

So I wrap my arms around him, as if I can hold him here with me just by that gesture. And then I kiss him. I’m afraid he won’t respond, but immediately his body presses hard against mine. For a moment, anyway. Then he pulls back.

“Brian, I’m not sure …”

I don’t know what he’s talking about at first. I think he’s not sure that we should fuck in the middle of a fight … whatever. But then he starts to go all red and almost teary eyed, and I realize he’s still fucking worrying about the syph.

I sometimes forget how young he is. How inexperienced in dealing with some of the shittier things of life. He’s had so many big fucking dramas to deal with, I’m not sure how this one even rates notice, but it’s clear that on his personal Richter scale it’s at least a 7. And, knowing this, suddenly I feel … like a fucking boyfriend, I guess. At least … a wave of fondness almost replaces the lust that was building nicely a few seconds ago.

I kiss him gently, and turning off the shower, reach for a towel. I wrap him up in it, and then say, in a voice that’s so sweetly reasonable it damned near makes me puke, “What did the doc say?”

Justin shrugs. And then gives a little half smile, that gets wider as I start to dry him off. I’m careful to keep it non-sexual. We used to do this sometimes when he was getting over the bashing, and I remember the drill. Remember just what he liked. Remember how good it seemed to make him feel. I let all those memories guide me to make this time good for him too. If it’s still too early and we can’t fuck tonight, then at least I can get him to the point where he’s comfortable lying close to me. Not that I want that … exactly. But he seems to sleep better that way.

“He said it should be okay. But …”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I assure him. “If you’re not ready.”

He gives a funny laugh, and then he’s pulling the towel away and pressing up against me again.

“Oh, I’m ready,” he breathes; and I know that tone of voice.

He’d better be fucking right about that, because just hearing that tone in his voice has got me way past ready.

*****

Justin

I wake up when Brian’s getting ready for work next day. I get up and put on the coffee, and when he comes out the shower I go up to help him get dressed. We both get some high protein breakfast and I realize just how fucking grateful I am to him for last night. I love that sometimes he just gets it.

I don’t think he always understands what’s going on in my head, anymore than I understand him. But sometimes he really does. And when he does get it, he always seems to know just what I need.

Last night I started off needing tender and gentle and reassuring, and wound up needing hot, hard, more … and I got it all. I give him an extra long kiss to try to tell him. He gives me a funny, lop-sided sort of smile. But it’s not really a smile. He looks … sad.

Why the fuck does he look so damned sad?

This dancing around each other is getting old. Tonight, whether he likes it or not, we are going to have to talk. I think he thinks that … God! Of course he does. He thinks that I’m not happy, not satisfied. And in a way that’s true. But not in any way that really threatens us. 

I don’t think it does, anyway.. Not unless he blows it right out of proportion, and starts one of his “there’s no lock on the doors” little scenario.

I pull him in for another kiss, and say the words I hardly ever say. 

He gives me a long look. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my face against his. His arms come round me, and in that gesture, I can feel him getting ready to let me go. Again.

Well, not this time.

I have to find a way to fix this. Find a way to tell him what I want, what I need, and at the same time make him realize that I will never come close to getting what I need from anyone but him; from any life but one with him in it. 

He leaves, and I have the day to work out what I’m going to do.

*****

Brian

I feel so fucking tired.

After a fuck-fest like last night, normally I’d be invigorated today, ready to take on the world. But I just feel …

It felt like goodbye. 

When he kissed me, and held me, when he said those words … it felt too fucking much like goodbye.

But what am I going to do? Throw him out before he can leave me?

Been there, bought the t-shirt, and wore it till it fell to shreds. Along with what might laughingly be called my heart. I can’t do that again. I don’t have the strength anymore. I guess the only thing I can do is just … hang on in there. And hope that this time when he leaves, he’ll leave … something, some shred of something that I can cling to, to get me through the rest of my sorry-assed fucked up life.

Of course, just when I feel at my weakest, Mikey rings. 

He’s babbling on about some fucking housewarming party - like that’s an attractive option after the dinner party fiasco. Then he says something about some guy named Brandon. It takes a few minutes of him babbling on about how Emmett says this guy is so hot, and how I finally have some real competition for king stud or some shit like that before I even realize who he’s talking about.

I stick my tongue in my cheek and tell him that yes, I can see this Brandon dude might be some sort of competition - if he was half as hot as he thinks he is. Mikey though, who seems to have suddenly done a complete about turn about how juvenile and pathetic my lifestyle is, doesn’t want to let it go. He seems honestly outraged that someone could come along and try to oust me from my position as super-stud. I let him ramble on while I go on working on the latest campaign, just making the right noises at appropriate intervals. And then Mikey makes some asinine comment about how I should set up a competition to see who can bag the most tricks in a week, just to show him who’s boss.

I have a meeting to go to, so I say, “Yeah, sure. That’d show him. I’ll have to do that very little thing. But right now I have work to do, so bub-bye.”

And then I hang up.

*****

Justin

I work out what I’m going to do. I don’t think Brian’s going to be thrilled about it. But I need to do something, and this seems to me like the best idea.

Mom is not convinced, but she understands, and even manages to find me what I want. Not on her agency’s books. I couldn’t afford the sort of rents they charge. But through someone who knows someone. It’s just a couple of rooms over a store. But it’s walking distance from the loft and it has these big-assed windows so the light is fucking fantastic. 

By just after lunch, I have my own studio. 

It will be a bitch to heat in the winter, but I can paint in gloves if I have to. And it will be mine. My own space. Somewhere I can legitimately go when the whole no-change thing with Brian feels like it’s strangling me, without him thinking that it means I’m leaving him.

I finally figured out that what freaks me out most about the no-change thing is that it feels like Brian’s once more calling all the shots. He’s not and that’s not fair, but it’s how it feels to me when he goes into super defense mode every time there’s the smallest change in the dynamics of our relationship. And that makes me feel weak, and I go pushing for way more than I need from him just to prove that I have some power in this thing between us. Which, of course, makes him even more defensive, and the whole thing just escalates way out of proportion. 

I need to feel that I have some control in my life, that I’m not back to being just Brian’s twink. This is my way of claiming that control.

And, anyway, if I’m not going back to school, then I have to seriously start working on my art. And not just Rage.

I can’t do that at the loft. I’m a messy painter. I like to splash things around sometimes. I need to be able to have drying canvases spread around the place. I need to be able to work for days without having to stop and tidy things up. 

It’s not just that Brian would have a fit if I treated the loft that way. I’d hate it as well. I don’t want to live in that sort of mess. I just want to be able to work that way.

So this is perfect.

Of course, he’ll resist it. Of course he will. It’s fucking change. And he’ll read way too much into me needing my own space. But it’s just work. He has Kinnetik. I will have this. 

Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be making enough that I can rent the store downstairs as well, and turn it into a little gallery. The area’s becoming more gentrified. It might even make money. 

I’m in really good mood now, so I decide to go to the diner for something to eat. I spent so much time running round earlier, I forgot to have lunch.

When I get there, Emmett is sitting opposite Deb and they’re deep in conversation. Em has the look on his face that he gets when he’s passing on some particularly tasty morsel of gossip, and when I come up to the table, they both shut their mouths with an audible snap, so guess who the gossip’s about?

I sigh.

Either they’ve heard about the studio, and are turning it into something way bigger than it is, or they’ve heard that Brian and I are “having problems”. Probably because I didn’t go to Babylon last night. 

Or maybe it’s about the syphilis. 

I wince. I hope not. I hope that Brian hasn’t said anything about that to dear little Mikey. You can’t tell with Brian. He might just think it’s funny.

Deb gets up, so I slide in opposite Em.

“So. Wassup?”

I wait expectantly for an answer.

Deb gives Emmett a warning look, so I know I was right. It’s about me. Or Brian. Or more likely us.

“What can I get you, Sunshine?” she says. And by the way she says it, with that mother hen tone in her voice, I know it’s about Brian. She thinks he’s fucked up again.

I sigh. Years of blaming Brian for everything that wasn’t the way she liked it in Mikey’s life have made it her natural response. There’s a problem? It must be Brian’s fault.

But I’m not Mikey. And I’m not going to get into this with her. I’m certainly not going to give her any more ammunition to shoot at Brian. Deb’s little bullets can wound Brian in a way that most other people’s don’t. She’s one of his weak points. He was desperate for a mother, and there was Deb, all warm and loving and motherly. 

The problem is that Deb’s love came with a price tag. It had to be bought with Brian’s willingness to shoulder responsibility for Michael - for every aspect of Michael’s life, every fuck up Mikey ever made. All Brian’s fault, in the gospel according to Deb. Add that to his natural control freak tendencies, and you’ve got why Brian thinks he’s fucking responsible for everything, and why all these assholes let him go on thinking it.

But now is not the time to take on that issue. I smile at her and order. She gives Emmett another look and heads off.

I turn the smile on Emmett, and raise an eyebrow.

He wriggles in his seat.

“C’mon, Em,” I say. “Spill. I’m gonna hear it from someone.”

He looks ashamed for a minute and then says in what’s meant to be a reassuring tone but just sounds nervous, “Justin, it’s nothing, really. It isn’t.”

Okay. It’s not the syphilis, because he’d be all warm and sympathetic over that.

It’s not the studio, thank God, because I want the time to tell Brian about that myself.

So … it must be about Brian. Something Brian’s done. He was pretty pissed off with me yesterday, for some warped Brian reason, so I guess he could have lashed out last night.

“So, what?” I ask.

Em looks like he’s seriously thinking about whether to answer, and then he drops the gossip queen mode, and becomes the Emmett I really like.

“Honey, it’s just Brian being stupidly Brian,” he says.

I sigh.

Now what?

*****

Brian

The first call is from Deb to invite me - not us, you understand, me - to dinner on Friday night.

Then Ted pokes his head in to “see if there’s anything you need, boss”.

And then Mikey rings.

I can’t believe what he tells me.

Can’t.

Don’t want to.

Can’t.

But Jenn apparently told Debbie, and Deb … seems to have told everyone.

Which leaves me, of course, the last to know.

Again.

Somewhere inside me is anger, burning through my skin.

Somewhere there is pain, pain so deep and all encompassing it’s like pouring acid on exposed nerve endings.

But all I can really feel at the moment is bewilderment.

How could he do this to me?

How could he let me find out this way?

I sit there for a while, pretending to work.

Then I go home.

Home?

Well, back to the loft, anyway. Guess it’s about to stop being a home. Again.

*****

Justin

When Em first tells me about Brian’s little competition I can hardly take it in. It’s such a fucking juvenile load of crap for anyone to even think about getting involved in.

But then I remember how Brian totally freaked out yesterday morning, and I realize that he’s going through something at the moment that I just don’t understand, so …

Shit! It just might be true. It’s something that Brian, tweaked and hurting, might just get himself into. And once in, of course, there’s no way he’d ever back away from it.

What a stupid fucking asshole! While he holds this pathetic competition with this Brandon guy, I’m just supposed to sit on the sidelines and … what? cheer him on?

Well, fuck that!

At first, I’m so mad at him that I can hardly contain it. I’ve told Brian over and over that I don’t expect, or even want, monogamy. For either of us. I like it that I can see a hot guy and fuck him without any guilt issues if I feel like it.

The syphilis has given me a bit of a wake up call about being too fucking casual about that but I still don’t plan on turning into little Mary Housewife, and I certainly don’t expect him to. No, Brian tricking isn’t an issue.

But Brian having the whole of gay PA keeping score, that’s something else again. Not to mention that it leaves me looking like a total twat for putting up with it.

It’s almost like he’s fucking creating a scenario guaranteed to push me into walking out on him again. And I wouldn’t put that past him, either. But I am so onto him. There’s no way he’s getting away with that. I might rip him a new asshole so big he’ll be able to install an en suite bathroom, but there is no way we are breaking up over this.

My anger starts to cool a bit and I just become determined. It’s time, and more than time, that I began to restate my claim on him, and on this relationship. He doesn’t have to say he loves me, he doesn’t have to swear some bullshit oath of lifelong fidelity, but he does have to show me some fucking respect!

To help me feel like I deserve that, to feel like I’m in control, I start working out what I’ll need to get for my studio. That leads me to pulling out a box, and starting to pack some of my paints, and stuff, ready to take down there tomorrow.

That’s what I’m doing when, hours before I expect him, Brian gets home.

*****

Brian

I walk in and find him on his knees in front of the storage unit, packing some stuff into a box.

Fuck!

I feel like I’ve been fucking stabbed in the gut. I almost double over with the pain. I guess up to now I’ve been holding onto some bullshit hope that it wasn’t true, some belief that he wouldn’t do this to me.

But now …

The pain recedes, and crashes back, like some huge wave, but in the space between, rage builds in me like a corrosive. I feel myself turning into Jack. I want to grab him and smash my knuckles on his face, bruise them on his ribs, plough them into the softness of his belly. 

My hands clench into fists, and I stand there gasping, trying to get some sort of control.

He looks up at me and smiles. Or starts to smile. That smile, my “welcome home, I’ve missed you” smile. Guess that’s a habit too.

Because all of a sudden his face changes, and all trace of the smile has gone. He stands up and pulls himself up to his full height. Which usually means trouble. Somewhere behind my anger, I recognize that, and my mind registers that, if I wasn’t seeing through a red haze myself, I’d say he was pissed as hell.

I’m still struggling to find … something. Some strength that isn’t pure rage, so that I can get some words out. Words that won’t … won’t send him reeling away so hurt and angry that he may never let me near him again.

I have to be near him. Even if we’re never together again, I have to have him in my life. I can survive, I can somehow get through this, as long as I have something of him left in my life. That need does battle with the rage, and finally wins.

I am such a fucking pussy.

“Going somewhere?” I grind out.

At the same time, so the words collide and bounce off each other in the space between us, he says, “Come home early to get a head start?”

I’ve got no fucking idea what he’s talking about, and I can’t find any more words. I walk over and kick the box.

It skitters across the floor.

“Hey!” he yells. “Be careful, asshole!”

Then the words come.

“When were you going to fucking tell me, Sunshine? Or were you just going to let me come home and find you gone?”

He stands and stares at me. As if he can’t take in what I’ve said. Or what it means that I’ve said it.

Busted!

Then he says, out of nowhere, like it fucking means something, “Brian I am not going to let you use this stupid fucking competition to drive me away. Don’t even think it.”

Before he’s finished, I’m already cutting in, the pain in my gut spilling through my voice and turning the words to sharp-edged knives.

“You are such a fucking liar! I know about the apartment, Sunshine, so don’t you dare try to bullshit me!”

Then, somehow, I hear what he’s said, and, for a moment, the pain recedes a little, and I just feel confused.

“What fucking competition?”

“What apartment?”

*****

Justin

“What apartment?”

“What fucking competition?”

We stand and stare at each other for just a moment before I realize. Fuck! Somehow, someone has already told him, and he thinks …

He thinks I’m leaving him.

As soon as that registers I’m moving towards him. He tries to shrug me off, to walk around me, but I grab his shoulders. He looks away from me, but I say his name, softly, with all the love that I can put into my voice.

“Brian.”

And then his eyes meet mine. The sheer misery in them kills any trace of anger that is left in me. 

“Brian, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it’s not an apartment.”

He gives a snort of harsh laughter.

“It’s a studio,” I tell him. Then I drag him to the box. “I was packing up some of my art stuff to take there tomorrow. I’ve just rented out some work space, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances at the floor and then swings his eyes around the room, trying to make it look like he’s not taking any notice of the contents of that damned box. But he does. I see it in the way he relaxes a little, a tiny loosening of some of the tension in his shoulders, his hips. He sucks in a breath.

“What competition?” he asks again. 

I know he’s playing for time, but I let him get away with it. Mainly because he genuinely doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about.

“I saw Emmett at lunch time,” I tell him. I figure that he’ll take that clue that I know all about it and will stop bullshitting. If that’s what he’s doing. Right now, I can’t tell. Because when I say that, he looks more bewildered than ever.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, which means he’s got a bitch of a headache. I give up any idea of getting the anger back, and slide my arms around him.

For a moment, he stiffens, and I’m afraid he’s going to push me away, throw another drama queen moment, throw me out; but then his arms come round me. He hugs me tightly against him, and I hug back. 

I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but I have the feeling that we’ve just dodged a canon ball.

*****

Brian

He puts his hands up behind my head and draws me down into a deep but heart-breakingly tender kiss. It nearly finishes me. I’m not sure that I can hold things together. I want to push him away, throw him down the stairs, lock him in the fucking bathroom, chain him in the closet. Something.

But he’s rubbing my scalp gently, and kissing all along my jaw-line at the same time. 

And he’s here. In my arms. 

I pull back from him, and he tries to follow with his lips, but I hold him still till I can look into his eyes. He’s got better at lying, over the years. But his eyes always give him away. He can never quite meet my eyes when he tries to lie to me.

Right now, though, his eyes look straight back into mine, and then he smiles at me. 

“Brian, I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I don’t know how to react to that. So I just pull him in and kiss him, deep and demanding; asking all the questions that I can’t find words for. And he answers - somehow answers all my questions, all my doubts and fears in that one kiss. So I pull him closer and kiss him again.

And while I do, there’s only one coherent thought going through my brain.

I am going to fucking kill Mikey.

*****

Justin

I know his headache’s really bad, when after two of the most amazing kisses we’ve ever shared, he just sighs, and staggers over to the couch. I help him get settled, with his feet up, and then I get him a drink. It shouldn’t help his headache, but he’s convinced it will, so it might. Anyway, he looks like he needs it. In the end, I get one for myself as well.

Then I sit down next to his feet, and maneuver around so I can pull them on my lap. I take off his shoes and start rubbing his feet and he puts his head back and gives a low moan of pleasure.

“So tell me about this competition,” I say.

I might love him, and I might be sorry that he’s been hurting, but he’s still not off the hook entirely.

“What fucking competition?” he asks, tiredly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your “fucking” competition,” I repeat to him. “The “fucking” competition you’ve set up with that guy Brandon.”

He huffs. And then says, tired, but with an edge, “Justin, I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

I sit and stare at him. He’s closed his eyes again, and when I stop rubbing, he wiggles his toes to draw my attention back where he figures it belongs. I find myself grinning a little, and go back to his foot massage. He isn’t kidding. He would no way lie about this. He really doesn’t have a clue about this so-called competition.

I tell him what Emmett told me.

He gives a ghost of a laugh.

“That is so fucking lame!” he says. “Do you seriously think that I’d even consider … Besides this guy isn’t even fucking hot!”

“Emmett said Michael told him that you’d told him about it yourself.”

He stares at me for a moment, and then he starts to laugh.

“Fucking Mikey!” he says in between chuckles. “It was his idea of how I should defend my title. I just said I’d do it to fucking get him off the phone.”

He laughs even louder at the look on my face.

“Brian, he’s told everyone,” I say. “Well, he told Deb and Emmett anyway, and you know what that means.”

Brian rubs his foot up my arm. 

“I wonder if someone’s told Brandon,” he grins.

Okay, he clearly thinks it’s funny, but even as his other foot begins to circle around in my lap in a way that means he’s feeling better, even while I stroll my hand up his thigh, and reach for the prize that’s hidden there waiting for me to release it from the prison of his pants, even while I am feeling so fucking glad that it’s not true, one thought is buzzing round my brain.

I am going to fucking kill Michael.


	4. Reverberations #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder - the anti-Mikey thing.

Brian

It’s not the most stellar fuck we’ve ever had, but it’s real and hot and him, and feels a hell of a lot better than anything I’d expected when I walked in here. Afterwards we just sprawl on the couch all tangled up together.

Maybe I’m just light-headed with relief or some bullshit like that, because at first I just thought the competition thing was funny. But, while we’re lying there all comfortable and relaxed, he makes some comment about how he’s going to kill Emmett if he doesn’t stop spreading gossip, and it’s clear that he doesn’t share that view. It’s also clear that it’s not Emmett he’s really pissed at; that he’d love to be ripping Mikey a new one if I don’t do something to stop it. Which makes me feel tired; and also reminds me that I’m pretty pissed off with Mikey myself. Maybe I should just stand aside and let Justin take his shot.

Why the fuck do other people have to get so fucking involved in our lives? 

I swallow down the rest of the Beam, and, to distract him from fuming about Mikey I say, “So tell me about this fabulous studio of yours.”

He gives me a look that tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing, and that it won’t work, then he grins and as he starts gently massaging my scalp, he says, “It’s not exactly fabulous. But it’s only a couple of blocks from here, it’s got great light, and I can afford it.”

I hear myself give a little moan of pleasure at the magic his fingers are working, and make a note to remind myself that I am not a fucking lesbian, then I say, “So … how come the word on the street says it’s an apartment?”

He shrugs. “It’s got one big room, and a tiny kitchen which is like a gas ring in a closet, and I have to share the bathroom with the people who rent the store downstairs. I guess you could live there if you had to, but …”

He makes a face, and I stick my tongue in my cheek and say pointedly, “Not me, Sunshine. But it’s nice to know you’ve got somewhere to go when the going here gets too tough for you.”

Fuck me if the little shit doesn’t laugh at that.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “Like I’m the only one who bails when it gets tough.”

Our eyes meet and we silently acknowledge that we’ve both done more than our fair share of bailing in different ways - he physically takes off, I move away emotionally. Either way …

Not a good way to deal, boys and girls.

I’m trying to find words to say something about that. Not some bullshit promise, but something, so he’ll know that I’m doing my best not to do that again. But before I can, his face softens, and he says, “I told you, Brian. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” I manage to croak out.

His smile lights up the room then, so maybe he’s heard the rest of it anyway.

*****

Justin

“Good.”

He said ‘good’. Which on one level is pretty pathetic … I mean, give me a break. That’s the best he can do? But on another … it’s fucking amazing. Because a year ago even, he would just have shrugged, or worse, made some crack about the door being open, or no locks, or some shit like that.

So compared to that, ‘good’ is like a major declaration.

“You could drive me down there,” I say. “Take a look.”

“Cart your shit for you, you mean.”

I grin at him. “That too.”

He nods. “After dinner.”

“You won’t see the light then,” I protest. I really want him to see it, to see why it’s such a good work space for me.

He laughs. “Am I Emmett?”

I don’t get what he means at first, then when I run over what’s been said, I pinch him. He picks now to get into bad puns? 

“See the fucking light,” he cackles.

For some reason it suddenly does seem funny and we lay there laughing like a pair of maniacs until we hear the phone ring. He stares at it for a moment, but neither of us moves to answer it. It’s going to be one of them, one of our friends, sticking their oar in as usual.

It goes to voice mail, and we hear Michael’s voice.

I think Brian would have gotten up and intercepted it, but I’m still half on top of him and before he can untangle himself, Michael is in full flight and it’s too late then.

“Brian, Brian! Are you alright? Call me. I just … I wanted to tell you that Emmett told Justin about the thing with Brandon, and maybe Justin is just over-reacting. You know what a drama princess he is. So maybe you just need to talk to him and make him understand that … well, you know, that you’re never going to settle into being a real couple, and he should just get over it.”

He’s not making any attempt to get to the phone then, he’s too busy holding onto me to make sure that I don’t. I struggle away from him and sit up. 

Michael gives a final, “Call me,” and hangs up. I sit there feeling so much anger that I can’t express. There are some things that are just off limits, and this is one of them. I get up and take a couple of steps away. I feel like I have to say something or I’ll explode. 

“I am so tired of this fucking shit!” I spit out.

He bites his lip, and I can see him, I can actually see him, finding a way to take on responsibility for this. Finding some way to make this his fault.

Fuck!!!

I take a deep breath. I am not going to let that stupid little shit have this much power over Brian, over Brian and I. And I sure as fuck don’t give a shit about whether he thinks we’re a real couple or not. I know. I know that I’m the one who was there during the Stockwell shit. I’m the one Brian listened to, I’m the one he let see how freaked he was, I’m the one who shared the fear that it would all be for nothing, and the one who shared the jubilation when it wasn’t. I’m the one who shared the tough time when there was no money coming in, and Brian didn’t have a job, or a plan, or anything … except me. I’m the one who fed him chicken soup, and cleaned up after him during the cancer thing; and I’m the one who was there while he fought to get fit enough to go on the Liberty Ride; the one who knew that he could do it; the one who shook his ass at him and gave him encouragement while he struggled on that stationary bike night after night. Just like he’s the one who’s been there for me more times than I can even count.

We sleep together, fight together, make up together; we share each other’s lives and just because we don’t wear fucking rings on our fingers or feel like we have to prove something by parading some chastity belt mentality to all and sundry does not mean that we’re not a “real couple”. I know that. I know that better than someone like Michael ever could. 

None of which means that Mikey’s constant digs don’t hurt. But I am not going to let him cause any more problems than he already has.

While I’m working out what to do, Brian gets up and walks over to unplug the phone. Just before he does, he hesitates.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks.

I take another breath and resist the urge to just shrug at him and flounce off. “I don’t mind,” I manage to get out. Surprisingly, my voice sounds almost normal. “Thai?”

He rubs his nose. “How about pizza?”

Our eyes meet for one of those long, in-the-balance moments, and finally we smile at each other, the tension in the air just vanishing. He’s the only man I know who could make offering pizza for dinner into some sort of declaration of love and commitment.

I walk over to him and hug him.

“I love you,” I tell him back.

*****

Brian

I call and order the pizza, and then I unplug the phone and we turn off our cells. Tonight they are all going to have to just get fucked. I lock the door and put the security system on, so the lock can’t be opened even with the key without the security number, and we changed that a few weeks ago when he first got home. 

Of course, I’ll have to open it all again for the pizza, but we’ve got twenty minutes or so till that arrives, and meanwhile I need a shower. He’s ahead of me, though, as I move up the steps and he’s already got the water running by the time I hang up my suit coat.

We don’t really fool around in the shower, just soap each other, and I wash his hair. He always loves that, and leans back against me while I rinse the shampoo from his scalp. For some reason that gets home to me in a way that I usually fight to avoid, as I realize how fucking close we came today to losing this. He might have gotten so angry over that stupid fucking competition story of Mikey’s that he really did leave me, and I might have been so angry over the apartment thing that I came home and said or did something unforgivable. Wouldn’t be the first time. So far he always has found a way to forgive me, just like I’ve forgiven him. But … if he’d left this time, I don’t know that I would have had the strength or the courage to take him back, even if it did all turn out to be a mistake. And he must be close to giving up on me the next time that I throw him out. 

I fold my arms around him from behind, and he presses back into me, placing his hands over mine and squeezing tightly. I nuzzle into his neck and he turns in my arms and buries his face in the hollow of my shoulder, his arms almost cracking my ribs, they’re wrapped around me so tightly. 

So I know he shares the feeling of how narrowly we escaped disaster this time. 

No thanks to Mikey. 

I sigh. I know that Justin’s mad as Hell. And that when it comes down to it he won’t do, or say anything to Michael. Not because he’s afraid to, but because he doesn’t want to cause any more problems between Mikey and me than he does just by existing, just by being with me. He doesn’t want to cost me my best friend.

So he soft pedals, always, through the minefield of Mikey’s petty spitefulness and I let him. I let it all go on because I am scared. I’m frightened that if just once I really spoke my mind to Michael, all the years of friendship would just blow out the fucking window. Mikey was mad enough over me helping Linds to keep some sort of role in her daughter’s life. Like I should never ever do anything that doesn’t put him first.

Even when he’s behaving like a total prick.

Then I feel Justin’s lip move briefly over my throat, and as we move out of the shower, the buzzer sounds from downstairs. He pulls on a robe to go to the door, and as I pull on a pair of sweats and follow him, I take in the fact that this time, he didn’t leave. What was it he’d said? Something about not letting me use the competition to push him away? 

I think about that while I’m opening a bottle of red. He was mad as hell at me, but he didn’t leave. He hasn’t been all that happy about how things are for a while, but, when the perfect excuse to bail on me came along, all he did was to get mad, and to let me know that he wasn’t going to put up with any of my bullshit.

Somehow, that makes me feel … better.

It makes me feel safe.

Part of me is scared by that feeling. But mainly what I feel is relief. I feel like after floundering for a long, long time, I’m finally beginning to feel solid ground under my feet. I’m finally reaching the point where I can believe in, if not forever, then at least next week; probably next month; Hell, even next year looks like a good bet. 

That’s more than I’ve ever had before. After I get the glasses down I turn to smile at him, hoping he can read in the smile some of what I feel about him right now, something of how good I feel about us right now. I know there are still some things that are bothering him. But I’m starting to believe that there’s nothing that can’t be worked on, as long as we both fucking hang around long enough to do it. And, more amazingly, I’m starting to believe that he’s prepared to hang around. 

He smiles back as he opens the pizza box, and crams some of that disgustingly unhealthy mess into his beautiful mouth. His eyes are laughing at me, so I know that he’s feeling pretty good about things, too, even if the little shit is deliberately provoking me.

I sigh, and then the smell hits me, and my stomach lets me know in no uncertain terms that it expects its fair share of where that sinful fucking smell is coming from. I give in, and grab a slice myself. 

We’re each gobbling away and struggling not to let any stray pieces fall to the carpet as we make our way back to the couch. He turns on the TV so that we can watch the end of the DVD we gave up on a few nights back. (Well, we got distracted, and interested in other things.)

We share the couch as we so often have, me at the end, my legs spread for him to settle between them, leaning back against me. The pizza box is open on his lap, so I’ll have to be fast if I want any more, and the wine is on the table beside us. The film is okay. It’s an old one, made before he was born, maybe even before I was, but it’s darkly funny and was written by a guy who wasn’t afraid to be out and proud even when it wasn’t even vaguely socially acceptable. Joe Orton may not be considered one of the greats, but he had balls and wit and “Loot” is a hell of a lot more enjoyable than most of the fucking pap they push on a public that probably deserves it for being so fundamentally fucking stupid as to pay to watch it. 

Every now and again, I bend forward and nuzzle into his hair, or kiss his neck; and sometimes he reaches back and caresses my face, or squeezes his hand on my knee. That’s how we tell each other that things are okay, that we’ve survived another crisis. That’s how we say all the things that we need to say to each other, in ways that don’t twist into lies as soon as the things are said. 

For tonight, at least, we're okay.

Tomorrow, outside that door, our friends are probably waiting to spread their shit all over us again. 

But as long as we can lock them out and sort things out between us, I'm starting to fucking think that maybe we'll do alright.

Fuck me!

Maybe I really am turning into a lesbian.

Nah, he's moving, and my cock is hardening, and I pretty sure that I'm still a faggot.

We're a pair of faggots, and to hell with all of them. We know who we are, and what we have, and who gives a fuck what any of them think.

Meanwhile, speaking of fucking ...


	5. Reverberations #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the very few things I liked in S5 was the development of a real friendship between Brian and Ted.

Justin

As it turns out we don’t go to my studio. Instead, after we fuck and eat and fuck again, we head out to Babylon. It’s not something we really discuss, but somewhere along the line we both get the yen to show all our retarded friends that contrary to all their predictions, expectations, and, in one case at least, I suspect hopes - we’re fine. Better than fine. We’re fabulous.

Given the perfect opportunities and excuses to fuck things up big time, maybe past repairing, we didn’t. We hung in there and actually fucking talked to each other - well, a little, anyway. Enough to sort out the truths from the myths and lies.

It’s that last one that’s sticking in my craw. I can accept that Emmett, hearing the story from Mikey would spread the news about the “competition” all over Liberty Avenue (like the heap of shit that it is). It would have sounded convincing, coming from Michael. I know just the tone of voice Michael would have used to tell him, too. That “oh, Brian is being so bad, but he’s still my best friend” martyr-whine that drives me completely nuts. And no doubt it would have come with a whole lot of “Justin is putting too much pressure on him to become a real couple, and Em, you just know Brian’s never ever going to want that”.

I can understand that Em believed it. But … it was a lie. Brian obviously thinks that dear little Mikey just took him seriously when he shouldn’t have. But … the whole thing was Mikey’s suggestion, and … I think he wants Brian to do it. I think that he got the word out as quickly as he possibly could so that Brian couldn’t change his mind and shoot the idea down in flames. I think Michael believed that once the challenge was out there, Brian wouldn’t back off from it. 

I don’t know that he’s doing it deliberately to make trouble between Brian and I - although that would hardly be anything new - but I do know that he’s doing it to try to keep Brian locked into the persona that Michael feels most comfortable with. And that’s what’s really pissing me off.

Michael doesn’t really want Brian himself anymore. He’s in love with the nice cozy little life that he has with Ben. But for some sick reason he needs Brian to be trapped in the life of clubs and drugs and sex that they used to share together. So every time he gets an opportunity to push Brian back there he grabs it with both hands; and then takes every opportunity to snark at Brian for never changing. I guess for the first time in his life he’s found a way to make himself feel superior to Brian and he’s going to hold onto it for as long as he can. No matter what he does to his “best friend” in the process.

It makes me want to do him some serious damage because Brian gets hurt by all this in all sorts of ways. Not least of which is having to deal with the spiteful things that his best friend has said and done to him lately. Like at that damned dinner party he sprung on us. He bargained Brian into coming and then ambushed him with those sanctimonious new friends of his. As far as we knew, it was just going to be the four of us. That’s why Brian got them the damned sling. It was meant to be a sort of “just because you’re Dads now, doesn’t mean you still can’t have fun” thing. A joke. But then we turned up, and those twats were already there, so I think Brian changed his mind altogether about giving it to them - until Mikey pissed him off so much by the way he was fawning all over those guys and actually joining in while they savaged Brian, that Brian decided to lash back.

But now, after all of that, after all the things Michael has said about Brian never growing up and all that shit, he’s the one who’s trying to push Brian into getting into this lame competition with Brandon. As far as I’m concerned, he’s one seriously sick little puppy, and if Brian didn’t have this need to have some sort of family (which means Deb and Mikey) I would so happily kick him to the curb.

But … that’s not an option, so I just sit and simmer as we head towards Babylon.

***

Brian

I’m not sure how we decided to head out to Babylon. I mean, we go most nights. Or at least, I do. And he makes it there three, maybe four, nights out of seven. But I really didn’t have any thought of going tonight, and yet, suddenly, we’re on our way.

The ride makes me think of one of those old silent cartoons. Nobody says anything, but Justin’s sitting there fuming so intensely I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears. It would be funny if … well, if it wasn’t so fucked up.

I know that he’s angry with Mikey. Hell, so am I. But Justin’s anger is different from mine. Justin … Justin won’t let it go. He might damp it down, might not blow up at Michael, but the anger will still be there. And the only reason he won’t tear Mikey a new asshole so big they could use it to park Concorde, is … me. He’ll keep a lid on it for my sake. Just like he did at that fucking dinner party. 

He was angry that night, too. But he didn’t add fuel to the fire, he didn’t fire off the salvos of his own that he must have been dying to. He just sat there and tried not to make a scene - like the good little butter-wouldn’t-melt fucking WASP that he most definitely isn’t. We didn’t talk about it. Big fucking surprise. But I overheard him on the phone to Daphne and … he was pissed. Majorly pissed. But then he dropped his voice and all I could catch of the next bit was something about “Brian” and “family” and “need” and so I understand all too fucking well why he doesn’t say anything. It’s because he thinks I need Michael. Well, and Deb. Which I guess is true. It’s why …

But I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about anything but getting to Babylon and heating up the dance floor with him and proving to everyone that …

That I don’t fucking have to prove anything anymore. 

I’m thirty-three years old. I run my own very successful ad agency and the hottest club in town. I have a beautiful kid who doesn’t yet hate my guts. I live in a fabulous loft, drive a classic car, and wear only the hottest designer clothes. Most importantly, tonight, just like every other night, I’ll be sharing my bed with someone who, as well as being smart, beautiful and talented, just happens to be the hottest fuck I’ve ever known. Someone who, contrary to everyone’s predictions, even mine, has put up with all my shit and is still here, still with me. A man who, un-fucking-believable as it may seem, loves me. Any night, Justin could have any guy in the place, and he wants me; he chooses me. He loves me.

What the fuck do I have left to prove?

They can eat my shit.

I don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. Except maybe to him.

***

Justin

Brian doesn’t even stop for a drink when we get to Babylon. As soon as we get rid of our coats, he drags me straight to the dance floor. Not that I’m complaining. If I can’t punch dear little Mikey’s face in, or at least slap it till his head spins round, I guess dancing is as good a way as most to get rid of all that pent up aggro. I relax for a while and let the beat pulse through me, converting all the anger-energy into something more positive. Brian’s doing that weird-assed scrunched down thing that he does, but he’s swaying so close to me that I can feel his body heat, even though we’re not touching. Yet.

Even as I think that, his hand snakes around my waist, pulling me closer, so that now our groins are brushing together and the heat between us is building and driving out all thoughts of everything except him, and how fucking good it is to be here with him, knowing that every other guy in the place wishes he was me. Or him. Or one of us. Or they just wish they could get a part of any action half as hot.

I slide my arms round his neck and pull his head down, tilting mine right back so that he’ll lick at my neck. For some reason, the feel of his tongue lapping at the sweat that builds in the little hollow of my throat sends me half crazy. He knows it too, and teases me a little, licking everywhere but where I really want him, but then he gives a long, wet sweep of his tongue on just the spot and I damned near come in my pants. It’s a good thing we fucked before we left, but that seems a long time ago now. I pull away from him, hooking my fingers in his belt, and tug him towards the back room.

Brian might not feel that he’s got anything to prove, I don’t know. What I do know is that I need to prove something. Not to him, but to all these other assholes who think that they can fuck with us. I need to prove that he’s mine.

He might never say those words. He might never even tell me right out loud that he loves me.

But he’s mine. And I am not going to be suckered into giving him up, letting him go, again.

Like they say … ‘fool me once’.

From here on in, I’m staking my claim. And they can all, all of them, fuck off and out of our lives if they don’t fucking like it.

I’m not that pathetic little blond twink anymore who barely knew which way was up. I’ve learned a thing or two along the way; and what I’ve learned best is - don’t mess with me. I will not put up with people messing with our heads any more. I just won’t.

***

Brian

I don’t know exactly what’s going through his head, though I can guess some of it, but by the time he drags me into the back room, pushes me up against the wall and attacks my mouth with his tongue, I’ve stopped thinking about anything much but fucking him senseless. He’s hot and ready for it, too. We fucked not long before we left, so he doesn’t take much preparation and once I push into him, he thrusts back against me so hard that for a moment I’m seriously afraid he’ll damage my dick.

We get our rhythm going though, and it’s all hot and tight and ‘harder’, ‘faster’, ‘more’, and we’re both sweating like pigs before we finally come - me just before him, him all over my hand; so I rub my fingers across his open mouth before I suck them into my own. The taste of him and the smell of our sweat provide the final garnish on a memorable fuck.

Then, when we’ve pieced ourselves back together, I wrap my arm tight around his waist and lead him out of there.

On the way, I see that loser Brandon. He’s busy pretending he hasn’t noticed me, but I can tell from the way he’s careful not to look in my direction that he damned well knows I’m there. I wonder if he was watching us. Let him look! He’s not going to be touching either of us any time soon, so let him think about what he’s missing.

***

Justin

In a long list of intense fucks, that one will stay in my memory as one of the hottest. 

I guess we were both out to prove something - not to each other, we know where we stand. But to all of the gossip queens who’ve no doubt been taking bets all day on how I’d react to the latest piece of bullshit. The thing is that if Mikey was hoping that by spreading the word about it quickly he could force Brian into going along with that totally lame competition, he seriously miscalculated. Because right now, instead of other people’s fucking opinions pushing Brian into proving that he’s still the stud of Liberty Avenue, all they’re doing is firing him up to prove that he has nothing to prove.

Except that we’re together.

That’s what we’re both about tonight, and I can feel the eyes on us both as we walk out of the backroom, wrapped around each other tighter than cling film. Yeah! That’s right. Look at us. We’re tighter than we’ve ever been, so you can all go fuck yourselves. Especially Michael.

On the way back to the bar Brian points out this Brandon guy who is supposed to be his competition. I shake my head at him and have to stop myself from laughing out loud. They seriously have to be kidding.

Even when I was a know-nothing 17-year-old twink I would never have compared him to Brian. If he’d hit on me that first night, I’d have turned him down flat.

Brian reads my thoughts and grins. “Don’t fancy taking him for a test drive, Sunshine?”

I look up at him with his own tongue in cheek look and he laughs, and hooks his arm around my neck.

I pull him even closer and the feel of his breath on my face makes me hard all over again. He just grins, the bastard, and then Emmett’s there, and Brian lets me go to start talking to him.

***

Brian

Emmett’s at the bar when we get there. So I leave Justin to get the drinks, and pull Mr Honeycutt out onto the dance floor. He looks nervous. He fucking should. I let him dangle for a minute, and he blurts out, “Michael’s here somewhere. He was looking for you.”

This is not good news; I’m still mad at Mikey and Justin wants to empty his ball sac and use it for a paint rag, but right now, it’s Emmett I want to talk to. I raise an eyebrow at him. 

“So, tell me all about this competition, then,” I say, all nice and friendly.

He looks even more nervous, but says, “Well, the way I hear it …”

“The way Mikey tells it,” I correct him.

He bites his lip and nods silently.

I huff an acknowledgement, and then shake my head. “Rumors of my participation have been greatly exaggerated,” I tell him.

“Brian …”

I stop dancing then, and lean close to him.

“Stop it,” I tell him. “I want the whole thing stopped. Blame Mikey, blame Brendan, blame the fucking Pope. But make it clear that the whole thing is a total fucking lie. I don’t want to hear another fucking whisper about it. You understand?”

He looks alarmed. “But Brian …!”

I grab his shirt and pull him closer; then I take a deep breath, get a hold on my temper and let him go. But I keep my eyes on his, drilling into his head so that he can see I mean it.

“Emmett,” I take another breath, and then I find the words to go on. “Justin’s hurting over this. You understand? Spreading that crap around … it’s hurt him. I …” I break off and shake my head. 

He looks sorry, then. Too fucking late, but at least he has the grace to look ashamed of himself. “Brian … I thought … Michael said …”

I nod. “Just stop it,” I tell him again as I walk off the dance floor to find my partner before he finds Mikey.

***

Justin

Ted appears just as I get my drink. He stops to say something to the guy on the bar, and doesn’t see me at first. When he does, he looks around nervously.

Smart man.

But he’s not the one on my shit list at the moment, so I say, “Hey, Ted,” nice and happy, and he relaxes a little.

“Seen Michael around tonight?” I ask.

He sort of shrugs, and then he seems to brace himself, and forever earns my respect by saying very quietly, “Justin, I know there’s a lot of stuff going on at the moment, and I’m not saying I blame you, but if you’ve come to rub Brian’s face in the fact that you’re leaving him, please don’t. Not here. It isn’t fair. This is his place now. It would be even worse than …”

My eyes go wide and I stare at him. Worse than last time, he means. Worse than when I left with Ethan. Before I can respond, he goes on.

“I don’t want to take sides. I’m just saying … please think about it. I know you wouldn’t really want to hurt him like that.”

I stand and just stare at him for a moment; at this man that we all tend to poke fun at a lot; at this man who is Brian’s friend. Finally … he really is Brian’s friend.

I smile at him, suddenly 

“I’m not going anywhere, Ted,” I say. I think he mistakes my meaning at first, and thinks that I’m just determined to stay and cause drama, because he looks even more unhappy, and seems to be trying to find words to argue with me. But then he gets it. I guess I look too happy to be in the middle of some huge drama with Brian, because he gives a shy little smile and says very soft and sincere, “I’m glad, Justin. I really am.”

I nod at him. Then I figure I might as well try to work out exactly how the grapevine got hold of this one.

“So … you hear that from Mikey too?” I ask.

Now he looks nervous again.

I sigh. Of course he did.

“I rented some studio space,” I tell him. “Some fucking place to paint where Brian won’t have to have conniptions about me maybe possibly splashing paint anywhere near his fucking designer furniture. How the Hell did Mikey manage to make that into me moving out?”

He doesn’t say anything. And suddenly he doesn’t have to. We both know the answer. Mikey made it into me moving out because he wants that so much he can taste it. He wants to have Brian back to being dependent on him for all the love and warmth in his life. He wants there to only be Mikey and Brian and no one else ever. At least, not for Brian.

Those days are passed now, of course. Aside from anything else, there’s Gus. Plus the others in our little band are beginning to see Brian very differently; which is why Ted is standing up, confronting me about my presence here, doing his best to protect the man when not so long ago he would have been sitting on the sidelines ready to enjoy the show - the more heartache and angst the better. 

Things have definitely changed, me most of all. But none of that stops dear little Mikey from trying to push them back to how they used to be - at least as far as Brian is concerned.

I shake my head. I’m about to ask him if he knows where Michael is, when Brian reappears. He walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, angling his head forward to try to catch a sip of my drink. 

I pick his up off the bar, and, turning in his arms, hold it up so he can drink from it without letting go of me. 

There was a time when someone behaving like that at Babylon would have drawn his most scornful comments. Just last week, probably. 

But not tonight. 

No, not tonight.

***

Brian

Part of me is thinking that if we get any more couply I’ll puke. But something else in me is psyching me into pushing our status as a fucking couple down the throat of everyone in the place. I hope they fucking choke on it.

I take another sip of my drink and then capture his lips with mine, letting the liquor spill into his mouth. He presses against me and suddenly all I want to do is get out of there. I’ve done what I came to do, and maybe if we leave now, I can prevent any bloodshed. Because something tells me that he’s not in the mood to cut Mikey any slack tonight. And to be honest, neither am I.

Just as I straighten up and grab my drink to down the rest of it, he appears. Him. Brandon.

He gives me a cool look and then leers at Justin. Justin, the twat, looks him up and down and then laughs in his face.

“As if …” he says, and leans against me.

Brandon does his best to give him a classic ‘your loss’ look, which just makes the little shit giggle. They guy doesn’t have much option but to try to ignore this, so he turns to me as if Justin is of no account

Wanker!

“So … what’s this I hear about a competition?” he asks.

Justin gives me a look, says, “I have to see a man …” and walks off.

I sigh, and look at Brandon. Then I shrug.

“You wanna be cock of this dung heap?” I ask. 

He raises an eyebrow and gives me his best unimpressed stare. Fucker! I invented that look. 

“You’re welcome to it,” I tell him. Then I lean in close.

“But you will never be me, you will never have what I have, you will never know what I know. Not unless you’re a hell of a lot smarter than I take you for, and have the devil’s own luck into the bargain.”

I look over to where Justin is dancing with Em. 

“I’ve had everything this place has to offer, and I’ve walked off with the best thing that ever sashayed through its doors. You’ll never even know what you’ve missed.”

The fool says something about “just another blond twink” and I laugh.

“That blond twink would eat you for breakfast,” I tell him. “He’s more of a man than the pair of us sorry assholes put together. And he’s got the equipment to show for it.”

I take another look at Justin. He’s dancing up a storm, lost in the music, giving himself totally to the beat. His white silk and linen blend pants cling tightly in all the right places, and the slinky little blue top shows off the muscle definition that’s beginning to come from his hours at the gym. His hair is gleaming under the lights, and his skin has a faint sheen of sweat that gets me hard looking at him. I want to smell and taste him; want to lick the sweat from his throat the way he likes.

Brandon’s wrong. Justin’s not the precocious little twink who won the King of Babylon contest any more. He’s a hot, beautiful and entirely desirable man; what’s more he’s a man who, especially when he’s in this zone, radiates an incredible sexual energy. He really is the hottest fuck I’ve ever had.

For a moment I stand struck dumb by the knowledge that he’s mine; that no one else in the place has a chance with him. Not tonight; not any night, if the past is anything to go by. It strikes me afresh how fucking amazing it is that, whenever he’s had the choice, he’s chosen to go home with me. Every time. Well, except for the fiasco with the fiddler, and I’d left him precious little choice that night either.

All this crosses my mind in a flash, and reluctantly tearing my eyes away, I pay Brandon the courtesy of looking straight at him as I say, “If you really think you need some lame-assed competition to make your reputation around here, then you’re already a loser.”

He holds my eyes a long moment and then he smiles. “At least let me buy you a drink,” he says.

The guy might have some class after all, but I blow him off. 

Justin’s out there all hot and sweaty, and if I grab him and get him out of here now, not only will he be more than ready for some hot sex, it might add a few hours to Mikey’s life span.

I turn to the barman, and indicate Brandon. “What he wants to drink tonight … it’s on the house.”

The guy - Keith? … Kevin? … Justin would know … grins. “Sure thing, boss.”

He smiles at Brandon then like he hopes that my generosity will buy him points with the new stud, and Brandon nods at me.

Guess honor is satisfied all round.

I give him a grin, and then forget all about him as I head out into the heaving throng of rutting men to claim the one who belongs to me.

Time to get the fuck out of here.


	6. Reverberations #6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall-out from the last chapter is kind of scattered around. It even involves Jennifer.

Brian

He’s sound asleep when I leave in the morning. I make one attempt to wake him and he grumbles something, and rolls himself up in the duvet, the pillow over his head, so I give up. I write him a note saying I’m going to take a half day and we can cart some of his stuff over to the undoubted rat-trap he calls a studio this afternoon, and I head out.

For some masochistic fucking reason I decide to head for the diner. Maybe somewhere in what passes for my mind, I was thinking that I could get to Mikey before Justin does and … something. Who knows? 

He’s not there when I walk in, but Deb is. She comes over to me and gives me a look … one of her “I’m not sure whether to hug you or hit you” looks. 

I sigh. “Coffee,” I tell her.

“You need to talk to him,” she says. “You can’t blame him for being mad.”

I stick my tongue in my cheek and debate whether to tell her fuck off, or just to walk out. In that split second, while I’m debating what to do, Emmett waltzes in. “Hi, honey,” he says to me, giving me a peck on the cheek. Then he turns to Deb. “Hey, Deb. Can I have pancakes, please, two strips of bacon on the side? And coffee?”

Then he ushers me down into a seat and settles himself in next to me. “Teddy will be here soon,” he says.

I give him a look to let him know how much that thought thrills me. Deb brings my coffee and is about to start in again on what an asshole I am, and all the ways I need to fucking change if I want to keep her Sunshine happy, when she’s cut off by Emmett chirping, “So … I figured out the perfect story to put around after you two left last night.”

I give him another look, and Deb butts in with “What fucking story?”

“The story to explain how that ridiculous competition rumor got started,” Em says.

“What do you mean ‘rumor’? Michael said …”

“Well, I could have blamed Michael,” Emmett acknowledges, while I take a cautious sip of my coffee and try to keep my head down.

“Why the fuck would you blame Michael? There’s only one person …”

Emmett slides a quick sideways look at me and then he lowers his voice and says, God help him, “Because it was Michael’s fault, Deb. There never was a competition. It was all …”

“Are you fucking calling my son a liar?” she spits out.

Emmett gives her a long look and then says, very seriously, the drawl in his voice more marked than usual, “Well, let’s just call it a little piece of wishful thinking, shall we?”

“Michael would never …” she snaps, and then breaks off and glares at me. “What the fuck have you been saying? How can you sit there and let him …”

I suddenly lose all interest in the coffee. I stand up and squeeze Em’s shoulder as he moves to let me out.

“Listen, asshole, if you think I’m going to …”

I round on her then.

“Enough! Butt the fuck out if you don’t want to make things worse.”

I move to go and she grabs my arm. I freeze.

I stand looking down at her fingers until she lets go, then I say, “If you want to berate anyone over this, try talking to your son. And if you do, I’d warn him to stay out of Justin’s way for a while.”

“Why the fuck is Sunshine mad at Michael?” she demands.

“Because between you and him you almost …” I break off and take a deep breath. Then I just walk out of there.

Something tells me I’m going to hear about that later. But right now I need to get to work. Maybe Emmett can talk some sense into her, let her in on what really happened. Maybe. But I don’t count on it. Mikey sweet and innocent, always. Brian to blame for every fucking thing in his life as well as mine. That’s the gospel according to Deb.

***

Justin

I didn’t mean to sleep so late. He should have woken me. As I stumble out of the shower, I hear my cell. It takes me a while to dig it out of my clothes, and by then it’s stopped ringing. I check the missed calls. Brian. I try to call him back, but he’s busy, so I start to get dressed and then of course it starts ringing again.

I snatch it up, but it’s not Brian, it’s Mom.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that her first words to me are a complaint about Brian. At least it’s not about the competition. No. It’s about Brian upsetting Deb this morning.

I can only wonder what went on. Maybe that’s what Brian was calling about. He’d never admit it, but he hates having run-ins with Deb. She can really get to him, hurt him in ways that no one else can. Not even me.

According to what Deb told Mom, Brian behaved like a complete asshole and was blaming Michael for all the problems in his life. Talk about projection!

But maybe it means that for once Brian actually tried to explain what really happened instead of just letting her blame him. That’s hard to believe … he never defends himself when any of them attack him. Never. I hate that. And I hate it that he doesn’t want me to, either. So I’m always left with the choice of being pissed off myself because I can’t say anything, or pissing him off because I do. In the end, I usually keep my mouth shut. Not because I’m afraid of his moods, but because it won’t do any good. They believe what they want to believe about Brian. All of them. Although maybe Ted is getting a clue now, and I know Emmett has seen Brian differently ever since Brian stepped up and intervened in some way when Ted was going through his crystal phase. I don’t know the details, but I do know, because Em told me, that Emmett is really grateful to Brian for preventing him from making a big mistake. They’ve been much closer since then. 

Anyway, right now I have Mom to deal with. What the fuck can I say? I don’t want to go into the whole competition thing, not with her. Because well … because she’d kind of believe it. Or at least, believe that it might be something Brian would do. (And I squirm when I realize that I believed it myself, at least for a little while. I really have to learn to have more faith in him. Maybe more faith than he has in himself. At least more than any of the other assholes who call themselves his friends. Right now, I’m no better than they are.)

So with Mom, instead of trying to defend Brian, I go on the attack.

“Why the fuck did you tell Deb I was getting an apartment?” I demand.

I hear her breath catch. Then, in defense, she goes all “mom” on me. “Justin! Please don’t speak to me like that. I’ll hang up if you use that tone with me again.”

“Fine, Mom,” I say sarcastically, “then I’ll ask nicely. Will you please tell me why in the name of all that’s holy you told Debbie I was getting an apartment?”

“I didn’t!” she protests. “In fact, she was the one who told me about the place.”

“What?” I can’t make any sense of that.

She gives a long-suffering Mom sigh, and says, “We didn’t have anything on our books that was really what you were looking for. I had to call her about the next PFLAG meeting, and while I was on the phone, I just asked if she knew of anything in the neighborhood.”

“What exactly did you tell her I was looking for?”

“A studio - somewhere cheap, but with good light where you could work. Now why are you asking about this? You sound really upset. Is everything alright?”

I sigh. “It is now,” I answer. “But I was packing up some of my art things yesterday when Brian got home. Mom, he thought I was leaving him.” I can’t help the wobble in my voice.

“Oh, Justin,” she sighs. “I’d hoped that you and Brian were more solid now, that you were more settled.”

“We are,” I swallow hard. I can’t tell her about all the other stuff. About the syphilis, and the dinner party at Michael’s, or Brian’s blow up yesterday morning. I just can’t tell my mother I caught an STD like a total slut, and she wouldn’t understand about the rest. Hell, I still don’t understand what caused the blow up.

I swallow again, and go on, my anger making my voice stronger, “But Deb called Michael and told him that I was getting an apartment, and Mikey just couldn’t wait to pass that on to Brian. So he came home from work early and found me packing stuff, and …”

“Oh, Justin! That’s awful. Did he let you explain? Are you all right now? Do you want me to call him?”

I nearly laugh at that. “No, Mom, no. We’re fine. We’re great.”

I stop and listen to myself, and suddenly realize that we are. We’re fine. Whatever caused him to walk out of here in a hissy fit yesterday morning, it went away last night. Got blown away in the reality of how close we came this time to losing it all. 

“Well, that’s fine, sweetheart. As long as you’re sure.”

“Yeah,” I hear the smile in my own voice. “I’m sure.”

She hesitates and then says, “Justin, don’t be angry with Debbie. She may have misinterpreted something I said.”

I let my silence tell her how unimpressed I am, and she hurries on, “I just said that it might be a good thing for you to have somewhere of your own to go to when things with Brian get a bit … tense. Not that you were actually moving, but just somewhere you could go if you needed to get away for a few days. But maybe …”

I want to be angry with her, but I guess she was just being a mom. Then suddenly I laugh. “That’s what Brian said - that at least I’d have somewhere to go if the going got too tough.”

“Justin … “

“Oh, Mom, relax, he was just joking. And anyway, I made it crystal clear that I’m not going anywhere.” 

I’m remembering some of the ways I made it clear, and I’m sure that Mom can hear the sated satisfaction in my voice even now, because she hurries on, “Well, honey, as long as you know that I would never try to cause trouble between you and Brian. I’m so sorry if Deb misunderstood, and that Brian got hurt because of it.”

I think about that for a moment. And realize that it’s true. Mom has moved a full 180 degrees from where she started with Brian. She likes us being together now. Has for a while. I wondered when that happened and how come I didn’t really notice.

“I know, Mom,” I tell her, and hope she can hear in my voice how grateful I am that I have her support now. It makes me feel like kind of a shit about all the grief I’ve given her over Tucker. “How’s Tucker?” I ask, trying to make up for some of it.

“He’s fine,” she says, sounding a bit surprised. “But what I called about was the next PFLAG meeting.”

“Why?” I ask. I mean, I guess I’m happy she’s working with PFLAG and all that, but normally we don’t really talk about it much.

“We’re having it at the GLC,” she says. “It’s a joint meeting with the members there, and we want as many people to come along as we can get. We’re organizing some opposition to Proposition 14.”

“What?” I feel kind of dumb. With one thing and another since I got back from LA I’m feeling really out of the loop.

“They’re trying to force some legislation through the state assembly banning gay marriage. We need to get organized to oppose it. I wanted to make sure you’d be there.”

I didn’t even hesitate about saying yes.

Fuckers!

After all the shit I’ve been through in the past few years, just because I’m gay, and now people who’ve never even met me are trying to deny me, or anyone like me, any chance at all of every marrying, of having our relationships legally recognized, and protected. I mean, it’s not like there’s even any legislation been proposed to legalize gay marriage in Pennsylvania. But people are trying to stamp it out before the debate even happens. That’s just wrong!

“I’ll be there,” I promise. “Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?”

***

Brian

I get home just after one and he’s on the phone to his Mom. He gives me a wave and I go up to change. I settle for jeans, a long sleeved tee and an easily cleanable jacket. Something tells me he will not be amused if I queen out over getting my clothes stained at whatever hell hole he’s found to paint in.

Part of me is glad that he’s a man now and doesn’t feel the need to discuss every fucking small decision with me, and part of me is kind of pissed off that he went off and did this without even discussing it with me. Plus, of course, part of me is quite honestly relieved that he has found somewhere because now that he’s not at PIFA, the only place he’s had to work is here, and, aside from the mess, the fumes of paint and thinners do nothing for me except give me a damned headache. But mainly I guess I’m just fucking relieved that it’s just a damned studio, and doesn’t mean anything like the shit that certain people were trying to make it mean.

Michael. It doesn’t mean what Michael was trying to make it mean. I want to ream Mikey out for that. But I won’t. I don’t know if I can keep Justin from doing it, but that’s between him and Mikey. Justin will try not to catch me in the middle of that; and I can only be grateful. I know that I’m losing my “best friend”. Hell! I’ve known that for a while. But it fucking hurts, and I’m not quite ready to just walk away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. If I can just keep things together for a while longer, maybe it will work out. It has before. It did after David. It did after my little stunt at his birthday party. It did after he made that crack about Justin and I punched him out for it. It did even after he pushed me into “blaming” Justin for finding out about the cancer.

I knew that Michael had manipulated that, as well. Even if he didn’t mean to, he wanted to be the first one that I talked to about it, so he …

And, of course, I let him manipulate me, and instead of taking out my anger and fear on Mikey when he fucking wept all over me and made me comfort him because I’d dared to scare him by getting sick, I took it out on Justin instead for daring to find out that I’m not immortal, that I’m human and vulnerable and not fucking perfect. I let Mikey manipulate me into that. Justin could have done that the first night he found out - gone all weepy and pathetic and made me be strong for him and make me find other outlets for my terror. Instead, by not saying anything, by not giving way to his own fears, he showed me yet again how fucking strong he is, so I could safely unload on him. 

Plus, of course, I was terrified as much as anything by the fear that he’d leave me. That he wouldn’t want me once I was diseased and …

Well, that’s past history. And I forgave Mikey for it. Put it out of my mind, like I’ve done so many times. All the hurtful things he’s said to me. Shit! People think I’m the insensitive asshole. I don’t know if they just never hear what Michael says to me, or if somehow the rules about giving your friends a break just don’t apply to me, but …

I’m pulling on some boots and trying not to think about all that shit when Justin bounds up the steps and throws himself down onto the bed beside me.

“Hey!” he says, running his hand up my back.

I grunt and let the other boot fall to the floor. I may not be needing it any time soon.

***

Justin

I don’t know what he was thinking about when he got home, but he was really stressed out by it. 

He’s much more mellow now, though. As we take a shower and then clown around getting dressed again, he explains his careful choice of clothing just so I can gripe at him.

“Jesus, Brian! It’s not that bad,” I gripe obligingly. “It’s just a little … seedy, that’s all.”

He scoffs, of course, and puts on his least favorite boots to go with a pair of newish jeans. He hasn’t worn the jeans in properly yet, and so he doesn’t feel like they’d be a great loss if they get contaminated by whatever he thinks lies in wait for him in my … I can hardly believe I’m saying the words … my studio.

The things that came to mind while I was talking with Mom reminded me that I still want to try to find out what yesterday morning’s little melt down was all about, but it’s no good asking him directly. He’ll either get all huffy again, or deny completely that anything happened at all. Instead, I tackle the other subject that I know might not go down very well right at the moment. I tell him that I’m joining the campaign to fight Prop 14.

We’re loading a couple of boxes of my stuff into the car when I tell him, and as I expect, his tongue goes into his cheek and he gets that nasty sarcastic tone in his voice.

“Of course you are, Sunshine,” he says, so patronizingly that I want to slap him.

I straighten and just stand still until he’s forced to look at me. He sees something in my face, because he stands tall and looks right into my eyes and waits for me to speak. I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to say. Some defense of why gays would want to marry, or something else that contravenes his little life codes. I don’t know.

Instead, I say, “Brian … it’s not about me wanting marriage. It’s about other people telling me that I can’t have it.”

He shakes his head and I walk up to him and put my hands on his chest.

“Brian, I’ve never wanted to dress in drag either, but if they were putting up legislation to ban it, I’d be out on the street protesting that, as well.”

So would you, my eyes tell him.

He hears me, too, because he just shrugs.

“I don’t want to live my life by anybody else’s rules,” I say firmly. “You and I … we might not need that. We might be happy to just forge our own way and do things the way we want to do them. But it’s not right for people to be saying to Michael and Ben, and Mel and Lindsay, people who do want that, who do want marriage and the picket fence, that they can’t have it.”

He bites his lip, but I know that he’s heard me. I hope that he’s clearly understood what I’m telling him. It isn’t that I’m dissatisfied with marriage not being on the agenda for Brian and I. I may never want that. I sure as fuck don’t want it right now. But I’m not going to let anybody else tell me that Brian and I can’t have that if we want to. That somehow we don’t deserve it. That our love for each other isn’t as valid as some het couple. That what we’ve fought for and struggled with for nearly five years is somehow even less real, less deserving of recognition than some fuck-witted morons who get married in a chapel in Las Vegas and have a quickie divorce ten days later.

That pisses me off; just like I’m tired of all the so-called friends who think we’re not a real couple just because we don’t want the same things that they want, don’t have any time for the things that they think “real couples” should want. 

Both mindsets are completely fucked as far as I’m concerned. There doesn’t seem to be a lot I can do about our “friends”. But these Prop 14 homophobic assholes - at least I can take them on. 

***

Brian

Fuckit! 

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I do not want to have to deal with this. Not today. Not after …

Not after yesterday.

But he’s not backing down; he’s just waiting for me to actually look him in the eye, so that he can nail me with whatever it is he’s got to say. Might as well get it over with.

Fucking drag queens! Shit! Couldn’t he find a better example?

Well, maybe not. Because I know where he’s coming from on that. For all that he has his little fem moments, he’s never been remotely into that scene. But hell! yes, I can imagine him out there marching in full drag waving a damned placard if that’s what it took. Only difference is that he’d be pushing at me to be marching alongside him. At least he’s not going to make me pretend to give a shit about this fucking marriage thing. I guess I should be grateful for small mercies.

And I can respect that he’s pissed off about people trying to set limits on his life. As long as the people he’s pissed off with don’t include me. I try not to do that. I did once, I guess. When he was first living with me. And maybe after the bashing. But not since I realized how unhappy it made him. The only limits I set now aren’t set by who I want him to be, but by who I am. Of course, that’s the biggest fucking limitation of all. And I know that who I am is bound to make him not happy eventually. I wish I knew how to fix that without having to completely change who I am. But I don’t. I know someday he’s going to want more … or at least different, to what I have to offer. Can’t do anything about that. Can only make the most of …

He’s finally stopped with the speeches; he’s just standing there with that look on his face. The one he had when he was going after Stockwell. Fuck! but he makes me admire him.

Suddenly, despite my misgivings and despite all the potential for drama, I can feel myself grinning at him.

It catches him off guard. His eyes widen, and when I reach for his jacket and pull him to me, he opens his mouth to protest. I let myself smile at him, and suddenly he’s smiling back, and he’s in my arms and his mouth is opening further under mine and …

Well, the drama all fades into the background.

“Let’s get this fucking stuff over to your damned “studio” while there’s still some shred of daylight left so you can help me ‘see the light’”, I tell him.

He grins at me, kisses me one more time, and we pile the last box into the car and take off.

We should both get some sort of danger money, the way we dance round land mines in this fucking … well, whatever it is we have together.

But at least we’re still dancing.

***

Justin

Walking up the stairs, I can feel Brian sort of drawing himself in to make sure that he doesn’t take any risk of brushing against the walls. I guess it is a bit grungy, but who cares?

Once I open the door, though, he stands there, looking around, and nodding slowly. The walls are streaky, and the floor needs cleaning, but through the grimy windows the afternoon light is streaming evenly, making the dust motes sparkle as they float around the room. The room glows, despite the dirt.

He walks across and looks down into the street, then he peers into the kitchen-in-a-closet and pulls a face. 

“Well, I know what I’m getting you for a studio-warming gift,” he says. 

I expect him to say a cleaning service, or a year’s supply of industrial detergent, but he looks up with a smile and says, “There’s a power point. You can run a microwave up here, and not have to worry about actually trying to cook anything.”

That’s a great idea. I hadn’t thought of it, and I want to say I can buy it myself, but then I figure that at least he’s not offering to completely redecorate, including installing every latest arty gadget he can find, so I reward his restraint by giving him a big smile and a hug.

That turns into a long, hot kiss, and then he says practically, “I’ll get the other box. You start making a list of what you need to get to make this place usable.”

I give him a look, and he says, “Broom, sponges, that stuff. We can drop by the supermarket on the way home. Don’t worry, Sunshine,” he finishes with a grin. “I’ll let you pay for it all.”

He brings up the other box, and I’ve worked out that I do need at least some cleaning stuff. The windows have to be done, aside from anything else.

I want to ask him if he likes it, my first studio. I crave his approval. But I can’t ask for it. I’m a man now, not a clingy boy, and I have to just make my decisions and live with them, without always needing him to validate them. Just like he has to let me. He’s doing his best to do that, so the least I can do is not undermine myself.

All the same it feels totally great when he turns to me as we’re about to walk out the door, and says, “It has that starving artist, garretty feel. You’d do the left bank proud.”

He gives me a quick hug and as we walk down the stairs I feel more like his partner than I have for a long time; since I got my ass kicked in LA. I knew taking control of this one thing would make me feel better about everything else. 

I knew it.


	7. Reverberations #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Justin's determination to fight Prop 14 cause a rift between him and Brian?

Justin

I can hardly believe this asshole! After fucking over both Brian and me big time, he sends me this email as if nothing has happened.

I’m on the phone to Daph when it arrives and I’m so mad I have to read it to her.

“Can you believe that?” I demand when I finish it.

“Well,” she says. “I know why you’re pissed at him. I would be too, but …”

“But what? He’s been a complete shit to both of us, and now he comes up with this idea for Rage so he expects me to just forget that he’s been doing his best to fuck things up between Brian and I?

“Well, but …”

“But nothing! He can eat shit and die before I’d ever …”

“Justin!” she cuts in, and I fall silent, still fuming. When she knows I’ve stopped, she goes on, “Is it more important to let Michael know what a complete dick he is, or to fight for this cause that you believe in?”

That slows me down, but I’m still seething.

“And having Rage and JT get married … well, it would make a statement, wouldn’t it?”

“Only to people who are already gay friendly,” I protest.

“To all the kids who see the wedding cover while they’re browsing for comics. And who knows? Whether they’re gay friendly or not, it might make them think.”

I sigh. “I guess.”

I’m reluctant to accept that she’s right. I don’t want to let go of my anger against Michael. I don’t want to have to work with him. And I don’t want … well, there are other reasons. Reasons that I don’t want to think about - especially right now.

Daph knows me too fucking well, though, and she knows she’s got me thinking of doing it, because now she gets all enthusiastic and starts bubbling at me the way she does when she’s excited. 

“I mean, just think what it would be like for some gay kid to see that. Some kid who thinks he can never have anything even vaguely like that, never have a happy life with someone who loves him, just because he’s gay.”

Now she’s getting way too close to the things I don’t want to think about, so I snap at her. “You can have a happy life with someone without a fucking wedding, Daph!”

She sighs. “I know that, Justin. Remember me? Girl who never wants to get married? But it’s different for gay kids. You told me that yourself. That you thought you could never really have all the things that straight kids have. All the romance.”

She’s quiet for a moment, knowing exactly what thoughts that statement has conjured up. Not fucking stupid floor picnics or “romantic” nights of listening to Ethan practicing his fucking fiddle and forgetting I was even in the room … until he was ready for another burst of ego stroking, of course. 

No, she knows I’m thinking about the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, ever will do for me. The thing I can’t really remember.

That fucking dance.

She doesn’t mention it, though. She knows how frustrated I am that Hobbs stole that from me. After a moment, she goes on quietly. “I know that a wedding isn’t the be all and end all of relationships. Of course it isn’t. But it’s a very powerful symbol. And that’s really what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? About bigoted assholes trying to stop gays having the right to that symbol. So think what it would say to gay kids if it was right there in front of them on one of their own comics.”

I don’t say anything, still fighting the fact that she’s right. Of course, even while I’m rounding up arguments against having to do this, having to give in and work with Michael to make this happen, my brain is starting to generate images of Rage and JT in wedding gear. Would Rage still wear his mask? Or would it be a symbol of how he feels that he takes it off? 

My mind flashes to an image I haven’t thought of in a long, long time … Brian … Brian pulling off a mask and briefly, just for a moment, letting me see behind it into a world of pain. Then turning away …

Fuck it! First the dance and now that! I so don’t need to be dealing with those memories - or with the lack of the best of them.

But Daph is going on, “It’s like you say …. just because you don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean that you’re willing to let anyone else say you can’t.”

“Daph …”

“Just think about it, okay?”

I sigh. Then, because I really need to talk to someone, someone who won’t immediately start blaming Brian for the woes of the whole fucking world, I say, “Brian will hate it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then she says, “Well, okay. He might. But you …”

She stops. As if I can’t hear the rest of that sentence. You shouldn’t let him control what you do. 

But it’s not about him controlling me. It’s not even about me being afraid he’ll be pissed. If it was just that, I wouldn’t be hesitating like this. 

The thing is that …

I don’t want to hurt him.

No one seems to have any idea how much he’s been hurt by Michael’s attitude lately.

And by Lindsay.

After all the shit the munchers put him through, demanding that he give up his parental rights to Gus, he finds out that they never made Michael sign anything like that. And that isn’t supposed to make him feel like total shit.

It’s like all of them think he doesn’t have any feelings at all. Like they think that Gus, and having rights as Gus’ father, just mean nothing to him. I’ve heard Michael say stuff like how he doesn’t want to just be a “drop in Dad” like Brian.

Yeah, like Brian’s a waste of space as a father because he actually put what he thought was best for Gus above what he might have wanted for himself. 

And then Lindsay actually came to Brian to get help to fight for her rights to JR. Like it’s never even occurred to her that he could do the same thing over Gus. As if he’d never even think of that, because he’s such a shitty father he doesn’t care that he has no rights at all even to see Gus if she and Mel decide they don’t want him to.

So all the pain that he went through, agonizing over giving up his rights to Gus, that’s all just nothing, and it was all for nothing anyway, and it’s all been stirred up again by the whole legal thing over JR. And to top it all off, Mikey’s been behaving like a complete holier-than-thou asshole for weeks - ever since they got married, really. Topped off by that fucking dinner party. Shoving it in Brian’s face how pathetic Mikey now thinks Brian’s whole life is, just because it isn’t like his.

Well, thank God for that! Who’d want to live in their boring little suburban mind set anyway? 

But if the thing is that if Rage and JT get married, then it could seem like that’s what I’m setting up as the ideal. That I’m saying that Mikey and his pretentious asshole friends are right, and that is how everyone should live and Brian is just wrong or somehow retarded to want to live differently than they do.

And there is no way, just no way in Hell that I am going let anyone think that I’m siding with all of them against Brian.

But that’s how it will seem if I do this. It’s how it will seem to Brian. 

At least, that’s what I’m afraid of.

I realize that I can’t tell Daph any of that, because it’s all way too personal about Brian; and I’m happy to spill my guts to her about my feelings, but I’ve no right to talk to anyone else about his. Which means that I can’t really tell her anything much that I’m thinking right now. I just say that I’m not really worried about how Brian will react (which isn’t exactly true, but not for the reasons she might think) and that I’ll think some more about Michael’s idea (which is totally true).

Then I hang up and try to work out what to do. 

Daph’s right, the comic is a good way to get the message out there. It may not help fight the bigots right now. But it might help shape the way that kids see things; and that has to be good for the future.

But it’s not just Brian who will think I’m siding with Michael and all these hypocritical self-righteous new friends of his. 

It’s worse that that. It’s how it will seem to Michael. 

I mean … this isn’t just any gay super hero. This is Rage. And JT. So if the wedding makes it seem like they’re settling into cozy domesticity it will seem like I’m saying something about us; about Brian and I; about what I want for Brian and I. Like I’m trying to find a way to make life imitate art. (As if! Neither of us are particularly suited for suburban bliss. Unless we were both genetically altered by some nuclear mishap that could never happen.)

But Michael will seize on the whole thing, and he’ll rub Brian’s nose in it. I just fucking know he will. He’ll find a way to use it to make his stupid dickheaded point to Brian about how much more “evolved” little Mikey thinks he is, because he’s got a fucking house in the suburbs, and a damned mortgage and all that shit. Oh, yeah. And because him and Ben never fuck anyone else.

As if any of that matters.

Would I like Brian and I to be monogamous?

Maybe. Sometimes I think I would. Other times, when I’m buried ass deep in some stranger at Babylon or the Baths … not so much.

Anyway, the truth is, Brian is far more faithful to me than Michael has ever been to Ben. Because Brian doesn’t want anyone but me; not in his life - however briefly he wants to get into their pants. But Michael has always wanted Brian; wanted to be Brian’s everything; wanted Brian to be his. Part of him always will. And Ben has to live with knowing that.

Mind you, Ben’s no saint either. Back when I was at PIFA, I picked up goss from kids who attend occasional classes on the campus where Ben teaches about him and some kid in one of his classes. This was back just before they got married. Seems like Ben came very close to playing away from home, and the only thing that stopped him was that the kid turned out to be a total nut case. Maybe Ben even fucked him. I don’t know. I don’t really care. None of my business. 

Except that Ben and Michael make such a big thing about how they’re somehow “better” than Brian because they’re so committed to each other. Yeah, right. One of them was ready to start fucking one of his students, and the other one still hankers after his so-called “best friend”. 

I know whose partner I would rather be.

I know who has the really loyal, really faithful partner.

And it’s not Michael. And it’s not Ben.

Fuck it!

I need to talk to Brian.

I sit and think deeply for a while, plotting a way to make this work for us, not against us. Then I send an email. But not to Mikey. Not yet.

***

Brian

Work, for once, is going smoothly when his email pops onto my screen.

Can he walk me home?

What the fuck is that?

I send back and ask him if he thinks I’m some fucking schoolgirl. He answers that I’m far too pretty to be a fat, pimply schoolgirl, but that if I want to play, he’s happy to be the big bad wolf.

I give a crack of laughter at that, as he goes on, promising not to walk me down any dark alleys.

I send that I’m disappointed, I’d be more than happy to have him walk me down a dark alley or two, but that I’ve got the car.

‘Can I get a lift, then?’ he responds.

‘Sure.’ I tell him, wondering what the fuck is up. ‘See you at five.’

He turns up all sunshine and sex and I’m tempted to ravish him in the board room, but there are still people everywhere, coming up with the first draft for a new campaign that needs to be ready for my inspection in the morning, so I exercise restraint for once and we saunter down to the car with no more than a deep wet kiss.

I can feel him buzzing with energy, and I recognize the symptoms. This is how he was when he was fighting Stockwell. This is Justin in clever devil mode, and it’s fucking hot.

I’m not sure what he’s cooking up, but he’s always even sexier than usual when his creative side really kicks in and I have to hope he isn’t planning to spend the whole night in the studio. He asks if we can stop by there on the way home, though, and at first I think he wants me to drop him off. But he says there’s something he wants me to see.

We haven’t christened the place yet, so I’m thinking about whether it’s any worse on my clothes to fuck there than in the alley outside Babylon. They had some sort of cleaning bee there yesterday - Justin, his little girlfriend, Jenn, Deb, Emmett - even that poor sucker Carl got roped in. I, thank God, had an important client meeting and just couldn’t make it. I even earned Ted’s fucking gratitude when I gave him an excuse not to don an apron and pitch in by insisting he sit in on the meeting. 

Anyway, after they spent all day on it, the place should be a little cleaner than it was, so maybe …

I notice that even the wall of the stair way has been scrubbed, and figure that I should at least be able to get a blow job without having to trash my favorite suit when he opens the door and ushers me in.

There are two drawings pinned to the wall. Rage drawings.

Rage is in some sort of fucking futuristic tuxedo, carrying JT who’s wearing some fucking white outfit. Oh, of course! Fuck this! I feel my insides turning to hot ice. If this is meant to be a hint, Sunshine … I turn to face him.

He looks me in the eye and says way too fucking calmly, “Michael sent me an email today. He’s had this idea for a new story for Rage.”

I snort. That fucking explains a lot! But not why Justin is buying into this shit. I bite my lip; my insides feel like they’re in a concrete mixer, but I can at least try to hold it together on the outside. I can’t fucking do this! I can’t … if this is what he wants then …

Well, I always knew it wasn’t going to last forever. Although I had started to at least believe in tomorrow; I guess tomorrow just got shorter than I expected, that’s all.

“He wants to do it to help the gay marriage initiative. To help fight Proposition 14.”

I snort again. That is beyond fucking stupid. Do they imagine that all those homophobic cunts are going to be in Mikey’s little shop buying this damned comic?

“Brian … I know that it’s a small thing. I know that. I know it’s not going to help a lot. But at least it’s us, it’s me, saying to all those assholes that I’m not going to back away from this fight. It’s me saying to all the gay kids who come into Mikey’s store that it’s okay to want this. It’s okay to want to live your life and your loves openly. That they deserve to have more than a guilt ridden ten minutes in some back room once a month before they sneak home to the obligatory wife and kids.”

He stops the little speech and takes a look deep into my eyes, so that I have to turn away from him. His voice is very quiet, and deadly serious as he says, “But I know what a can of worms this will open up for you, for us. So if you’re not okay with it, I’m not going to do it.”

I turn to look at him now alright! I give him the full force Kinney glare. How the fuck does he dare to put this on me?

Of course, the little shit just gives me one of those ‘don’t give me that shit, I’m on to you’ looks. The ones that simultaneously make me want to puke and howl and bury myself in his ass. They scare the fuck out of me and make me feel … safe, okay? For some God forsaken reason they make me feel more fucking safe than anyone has any right to feel; if they’ve got even a fucking ounce of sense, that is.

“Brian,” he says, still quiet, still serious, “this isn’t about us. We stopped being anything like Rage and JT a long time ago.”

That nearly does it for me.

I can’t fucking stand here and listen to this. My gut feels rigid now - a concrete slab of pain. I’m sorry I stopped being your fucking hero, Sunshine, but I never asked …

His voice cuts across the pain, making it break in pieces and then just … vanish. 

“You stopped being like Rage when you put everything you had at risk to fight Stockwell … not even knowing if it would work.”

He gives me a smile then … not the blinding one that earned him his nickname, but the small, intimate smile that he seems to save for me.

“Rage … I don’t think Rage has that kind of courage. Not the kind to risk everything he’s fought so hard for all these years. He’s just superhero stupid fuck brave.” 

I stand and stare at him, then I have to look away. It doesn’t matter, though, because his voice follows me. “You’re the real deal.”

I can’t speak. My throat is so tight it aches. His hand brushes mine for a moment, then he turns to look at the drawing and there’s something like contempt in his voice as he goes on.

“And I stopped being like JT a long time ago, I hope. All needy, and ‘oh, Rage, save me!’” he finishes in a mincing falsetto that draws a slow grin from me.

I reach out an arm for him, hooking it round his shoulders, and he turns to me and his arms go tight around my waist.

“We’re not like Rage and JT at all anymore.,” he says, as he rubs his nose against my chin. “They’re stuck in comic land where they can never grow old, but they can never get any wiser either.”

His arms squeeze tighter as he looks up at me, all serious blue eyes and that sweet small smile. “We got a lot smarter along the way than they can ever be. We’ve outgrown them. I don’t need the things from you any more that JT needs from Rage; and you …”

His eyes swim for a moment, or maybe mine do, as his voice trembles with emotion, with … with love … 

“You’re so much more than Rage will ever be able to be. He has to stay the same forever, but you …” 

He laughs then, and kisses the corner of my mouth. “You’re …”

He breaks off as I twist my head to bring my lips down hard on his.

I don’t know if I dare hear what he thinks I am. Whatever it is, he doesn’t hate it, and that’s all that matters to me right now. What I am is okay with him.

What he fucking thinks I am.

But the truth is …

He’s always been onto me.

I have to believe that that’s still true, and that the Brian he sees, the one who makes him glow like this, exists somewhere in me.

And when he smiles up at me, his lips all red and his cheeks flushed, and then slithers down my body till he’s kneeling before my stiffening cock on the floor (the floor that at least looks now as if it’s seen a mop sometime in the last fucking decade), I find that I can believe it. I can believe in that Brian. Or at least, I can believe in him; in Justin. 

Even if I can’t quite believe in “forever”, I can still find it in me to believe in him.


	8. Reverberations #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that anti-Mikey warning.
> 
> Because even in canon I thought that scene at Michael and Ben's housewarming where they were handing round the comic like it was their work and Justin had nothing to do with it was just off.

Justin

“Sorry I’m late.”

I slide into the seat opposite Emmett. Not at the diner, thank God. I am so not in the mood for another lecture from Deb today about how mean I’m being to poor little Mikey. After whining at me for days about my conditions for doing the Rage issue, he then set Deb onto me; without actually explaining to her what I wanted to do, or why, of course; just that I was “trying to take over the writing now”. So Deb's been harrassing me about how I need to be fair to poor little Michael, because after all it's half his work too. 

Anyway, I’m meeting Em (whom I’ve hardly seen for weeks because I’ve been buried in trying to get the damned marriage issue together in a big hurry), for lunch at a nice little bistro downtown. 

He waves off my apology.

“Well, honey,” he says in his soft drawl, “I always say a good man’s worth waiting for.” Then he gives me a smile.

I’m glad to see it, because from what I hear he hasn’t been smiling much in the last week or so since he got canned from his TV show.

“So,” he goes on. “Michael tells me there’s a new Rage issue on the way, but he’s being very secretive about it.”

I shrug. Michael’s always been paranoid about letting anyone know what we have planned for Rage. And this time he’s even worse than usual because there’s a big fund raiser being organized by the GLC to raise money to fight Prop 14, and the plan is to “debut” the comic that night. 

We’re going to give every guest a copy, and maybe have a silent auction for the original cover artwork.

I have to smile to think that the drawing that set the whole thing in motion also triggered one of Brian’s and my more stellar sex sessions. Somehow I don’t think the GLC would approve. Fuck ‘em. At least my studio got christened in spectacular fashion. 

I’m thinking of just how spectacular (even I can’t figure out how we managed to get cum on my new microwave), when Em says, “Oh, please, honey, not with the satisfied grin … You’re talking to a man who lives with Debbie and her hetero beau. I can’t remember the last time I felt that good.

Living in Deb’s house doesn’t make having a healthy sex life all that easy with its paper-thin walls and her prurient attitude. Even jerking off is almost an audience participation activity. I give him a sympathetic grin.

“Oh, it’s not just that I know they can hear everything. Or that I just know that Deb will comment next day on what she’s heard. That’s all bad enough. But, think about it, sweetie … if she can hear me … think about what I can hear.”

He sighs. “You have no idea how it turns a boy off to hear two hets going at it in the next room. Especially … well, you know I love Deb, but the thought of her and Carl … not inspiring.” 

He shudders and I laugh.

“You need your own place, Em,” I tell him. Then as I remember about his TV job, I wish I hadn’t. 

He sighs. “I know it, honey. But … I hated living on my own.”

“But …,” I hesitate. I want to ask him about when he lived in the old apartment after Mikey moved in with David, but maybe he was miserable then too. I would hardly know. I’d been in hospital most of that time. I go on slowly, “I remember when Michael first moved out of the apartment, when he moved in with David. You seemed to enjoy having the place to yourself.”

He shrugs. Then he looks thoughtful. “Well, that’s true. But when I had that other place …”

I smile at him. I only went there once, but that place was so not Emmett. I can still remember Brian’s caustic comments about the knock-off versions of all his designer stuff.

“Maybe that was just the apartment,” I tell him. “Maybe you just didn’t feel at home there.”

He brightens. And then sighs. “Well, I guess that could be true. But right now probably isn’t the time to be looking for another place.”

I bite my lip. I want to say something to him about how sorry I am. Everyone’s told me all about the scene at the store; about how Brian more or less dared Emmett to do something outrageous on the show, and then he did, and got canned, so of course now that’s all Brian’s fault. And maybe it is, a little. He just can’t leave well enough alone. He saw someone that he thinks of as a friend (however hard he might deny it), doing something that he thought was less than their best, and of course, he had to say so. Anyone else would have just shrugged and said that what did it matter, as long as Emmett was happy. But it mattered to Brian. 

He respects Emmett, that’s the thing. More than anyone would guess. People would probably be surprised to know that Brian honestly doesn’t think of Em as a silly queen, he thinks of him as another out and proud gay man, and he hated seeing Emmett making an idiot of himself for a bunch of straights to gush over for a week, and for all the supercilious fags like Michael’s friends to laugh at. That’s how Brian saw the whole TV thing anyway. Not that he’s mentioned it to me, of course. But I know how he thinks about stuff like that.

But still, he interfered and now …

“Honey,” Emmett breaks in on my thoughts. “I’ve never said anything, and, well, you know how hard it can be to say something to Brian that he doesn’t want to hear.”

I brace myself. I might agree that there really are times when we’d all be a lot more comfortable if Brian could just keep his mouth shut, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to be the one to tell him he should have minded his own business.

“Well, if you could just find a way to let him know how grateful I am to him.”

I stare at him. I can feel my mouth open, and force it closed again. Then, to give myself time to think, I take a sip of the water that the waiter has at last brought. Maybe someday he’ll even bring a menu.

Em gives me a sad little smile. “My Aunt Ella always told me that you can always tell who your real friends are by the truths they tell you that you don’t want to hear,” he says. Then he grimaces. 

“Well, of course, by that, Brian’s the best friend of half the queers in Pittsburgh,” he goes on; which makes us both laugh. 

Then he says seriously, “But I know he said what he did because he cared enough not to want me to make a fool of myself, and I really appreciate it.”

I smile at him a little mistily. 

If people only knew how fucking frustrating it is to always have to have Brian’s back just because his so-called friends are so fond of sticking knives in it. Sometimes it feels like I can never get mad at him over the real fuck ups that he’s made in our relationship, because he’s been so hurt by them all blaming him for their own fuck ups that I just can’t bring myself to add any more pain to what he’s already carrying. 

Which means a whole lot of things just never do get dealt with between us.

It really pisses me off.

At least today, that’s not what’s happening and I’m so relieved, and so grateful to Emmett for not joining the usual throng howling for Brian’s balls that I want to hug him.

I don’t though, I smile and thank him, and then I let the smile slip into a grin, and say, “I have to admit, Em, if you had to go out, it was a great way to go. I bet they shit themselves.”

He laughs. “Oh, honey, you don’t know the half of it. If you could have seen their faces ...”

We share a laugh over all that, and talk about how the whole thing has at least been great publicity for his party planning business. Apparently he’s been getting more calls than ever in the last week, since he was unceremoniously dumped from his slot.

“I think some of them just want to check out whether I was bragging about my package,” he says with one of his wicked grins.

Then he says, “So, speaking of parties, are you and Brian going to Ben and Michael’s faaabulous housewarming?”

I grimace. “Probably,” I sigh. I am so not thrilled with the prospect.

He wrinkles his nose. “Me too.”

We share a look. Of course he’s going. He shares a house with Deb. He wouldn’t dare not go.

Just like me, really. Except that there are all sorts of reasons why I don’t want to go - memories of that for shit dinner party being close to the top of the list; but if I don’t go, Brian definitely won’t. And if he doesn’t go … I just can’t be bothered dealing with all the shit he’s going to cop.

We spend the rest of our lunch speculating on just how boring it’s likely to be. I mean … it’s not like either of us think that Mikey should be throwing some kind of orgy, it’s just that we both suspect that it’s going to be an even bigger frost than that stupid fund raiser that he and David threw for Senator Baxter; with Ben and Michael playing happy families with JR, and trying to make the rest of us feel total losers because we don’t share their passion for the house and the mortgage and the 2.4 kids. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there’ll be his lovely new friends looking down their noses at the rest of us, just because we’re not living their nice little suburban lifestyle. 

Em claims that it’s actually worse for him and Ted, because as well as getting sneered at for still going to clubs and enjoying themselves, they get all this fake sympathy because they just haven’t found the right man yet.

As Em says, it’s not like he and Ted haven’t been looking. And maybe if either of them had been lucky enough to be in a long-term relationship they would like to live a bit like Michael and Ben. But … 

“You just can’t make that happen, you know?” he says a little wistfully.

I nod. Yes, I know. If you could choose who you fall in love with, then maybe I would have chosen someone … easier … than Brian. But you can’t. And I certainly wouldn’t have fallen for anyone like those new friends of Michael’s with their closed little minds, and their snooty air of superiority. Although, come to think of it, maybe in a few years, that’s just what Ethan will be like. I smother a laugh at that thought, and go back to listening to Emmett.

“And I get so tired of people like that putting me down, just because I don’t have a cozy home life with Mr. Right,” he says, sounding almost as pissed off as their attitude makes me feel. 

I realize then that the part that I’ve insisted that Michael put into the comic is important to more than just the kids; that there are lots of guys like Emmett and Ted who maybe need to be reminded that living out the romantic fantasy isn’t the only way to be happy. 

That’s why I drew one panel where, in the midst of all the gooey stuff about the wedding, JT asks Zephyr if he thinks he’ll ever get married, and Zephyr says that he doesn’t think he’d ever want to, that his life is fine just the way it is. Michael had a shit fit over it, and insisted that Zephyr would never say that. I told him he just meant he’d never say it, and that if he wanted to go ahead with the issue, then he’d have to remember that Zephyr wasn’t him, anymore than Rage was Brian, so he could say whatever words we wanted to put into his mouth.

Michael heard what I was saying then - that if he’d bent Rage so far away from Brian that he was getting married, and carrying JT across the damned threshold, for fuck’s sake, then Zephyr could at least put the argument that marriage might not be for everyone, and that that’s okay too. And that there wouldn’t be any wedding issue, unless Michael was prepared to let him.

He’s still pissed off with me though. Like I said, he’s even gone whining to Debbie about it. Without actually telling her the whole story, of course; just that I’m trying to make him write the issue the way I think it should be written, trying to muscle him out as writer. But I don’t care. It was important to me to have that point of view given at least a passing acknowledgement.

***

Brian

I swear to the fucking God I don’t believe in that if he asks me one more time about Mikey’s fucking party I’m going to kick his ass to kingdom come!

I have no intention of gracing Mikey’s little soirée with my presence. It’s not like he really wants me there, anyway, except as a target for his little friends to sneer at. Well, fuck that!

Does Sunshine forget the shit they poured all over me at that fucking dinner party?

I slam the coffee pot down on the counter and he glares at me.

“Don’t be so fucking childish, Brian!” he snaps. “All you have to do is to show up for an hour and then you can go to Babylon or wherever you want and do whatever you want with whoever you want. But I am not going to deal with all of Deb’s shit when you don’t at least put in an appearance at the party.”

“Don’t worry, Sunshine,” I says sweetly, “Deb will know exactly who’s to blame. I mean … she always knows who to blame, right?”

He gives one of his patented long suffering fucking sighs, and I grab my coat and try to remember again why I didn’t want him to move out.

“Brian,” he says in that calm voice that he uses when he thinks he’s being oh, so reasonable. The one that makes me want to throw something at his head.

He comes towards me, but has the sense not to try to touch me. Right now I feel like I might spontaneously combust and we’d both go up in fucking flames if he came too close to me.

“Brian, I know she does that. And I know it’s not fair. And I don’t want to go to the party either.” He stops and takes a deep breath, and then, when he’s sure that I’m not going to just shove him out of the way and get out the fucking door to the sanctuary of work, he goes on, “But you’re not the only one she says things to, you know? And I hate it. I am so tired of …”

“Having to apologize for me?” I sneer.

“Having to listen while they attack you yet again,” he says quietly. “I never know what to say. One day I’m going to break, and tell them all what I really think of them and …”

He shakes his head, and gives a wobbly sort of smile.

“I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me,” he finishes sadly.

I feel something hard and bitter clogging my throat, then it dissolves into sweetness as he comes into my arms. I don’t remember opening them, don’t remember reaching for him, but suddenly he’s there. I wonder how the fuck he does that?

I give him one brief hard hug then, letting him go, I shrug into my coat and pick up my briefcase.

“One hour,” I tell him. “And I make no promises about how much I fucking drink.”

He grins. “Maybe we could have a chugging competition.”

I huff a laugh at that. He is such a lightweight with alcohol. Two drinks and his eyes are starting to roll back in his skull.

“And you buy their fucking present,” I tell him. “I’ll pay for it, but I am not going looking for some ‘suitable’ fucking gift.”

“Briii-aaan!” he whines, sounding just like Mikey. He doesn’t think I know he deliberately impersonates my erstwhile best friend, but I’m a long way from being stupid, Sunshine.

I give him one hard kiss on the mouth and head for the door.

He grabs my arm and pulls me back into a long deep wet kiss that almost makes me forget why I have to get to the office, hell, it nearly makes me forget I have a business at all.

Then he turns me to the door, pats my behind, and says, “Later,” in a tone of voice full of promise.

So, okay, maybe there were some reasons that I didn’t want him to go.

***

Justin

Despite his protests, I force Brian to look at some catalogues with me and after rejecting his wonderful suggestion of a self flushing toilet bowl, we finally find something that he doesn’t completely hate at least.

And miraculously I manage to get him to the party more or less on time. Okay, this is largely because he says he’s planning on heading out to some sex party afterwards, but I really don’t care. He’s here, and if I can just prevent most of the shit that’s going to be flying around from really hitting the fan for the next hour, then we should be able to escape with minimal damage.

***

Brian

Amazingly, things go okay for the first hour or so, and I’m just about to collect on my promise and make my fucking escape, when, with video camera whirring, Mikey and Ben decide to stage a little self-congratulatory speech session. I’m so fucking tempted to bail, but Justin’s giving me that look and Deb is giving me the evil eye, so I resign myself to another half hour’s boredom. Then I can escape, and hopefully take him with me.

I certainly don’t think he’s going to want to stay here. Even Ted looks bored. And the only thing keeping Emmett entertained is bitching about how much better the food would have been if they’d let him cater it.

Sonnyboy isn’t even here. Apparently Michael told Linds that it wasn’t going to be suitable for kids. Although JR is here, of course. But then I guess she’s a “real” fucking kid, because her Dad is part of a “real” couple. Not like Gus’ old man. I don’t mind them heaping all that shit on me, but I get fucking tired of it when it affects the people … some weird-assed shit starts happening in my chest then as I finish the thought … the people who love me.

I sit for a moment or two and everything around me does some sort of fade out, Mikey’s speech just white noise as I think about that.

The people who love me.

Justin.

And Gus.

They love me.

And when I fuck things up, they get punished for it too. Which doesn’t seem fucking fair to me.

If his sister is here, so should Gus be.

How can it be fair that he’s not?

But … he’s my son … so he shouldn’t feel any pain about that sort of stuff, right? Shouldn’t feel left out? Feel that he’s somehow defective because he’s not wanted at this sort of “family” gathering?

I take a deep, shaky fucking breath and come back to the room just in time to hear Justin’s little gasp of shock, and see Ben waving around copies of the fucking comic.

What the fuck?

***

Justin

I can not fucking believe this! Ben’s thrusting comics into everyone’s hands, and somehow I wind up with one.

Everyone is oohing and ahhing and I’m trying to work out what the fuck to do when I see Brian’s face.

He knows something’s wrong, he knows what the plan was about “launching” this issue. And I have to head him off before he says anything.

“Michael, can we talk?” I hear myself say.

“Oh, not right now, Justin,” Ben fucking answers. “We need to do some more with the video. We need a shot of the family.”

Brian’s still looming, ready to tell him what he can do with his video, when I grab his arm. “It’s my issue,” I tell him. “Let me deal with it.”

He bites his lip, not wanting to let it go, control freak that he is, but eventually he nods, and goes to get us both another drink.

While he’s fetching them, and Ben and Michael are fussing about with the fucking video, I automatically start to leaf through the comic to see how it looks in print. That’s when I realize what that fucking little asshole has done. The panel that I drew showing Zephyr shrugging off the idea of marriage as the be all and end all has just vanished. Michael has just fucking removed it from the issue. Without even fucking telling me.

I want to scream at him and punch his smug little face into next week, but all my WASP training tells me not to, tells me to put it aside, at least for now, to not create a scene at their party.

But I can’t stay here, I'll explode if I do, and say all the things that I normally keep the lid on for Brian's sake. I'm heading towards the hallway to get my coat when I hear Michael ask Brian what he thinks of the comic. Oh, fuck!

***

Brian

I’ve told Justin I’ll let him deal with Mikey, but that doesn’t mean that I have to put up with his bullshit of pretending that there’s nothing fucking wrong.

I give him a look to let him know what I think of him pulling this fucking stunt, and tell him my Norman Rockwell painting story.

I hope he gets the fucking message. Rockwell was so full of shit. Painting a world where everything was so nice and sweet and just ignoring all the shit that was going on around him; all the men being hung from trees because their skin was the wrong colour, and the people being hounded out of work because someone didn't like their politics, and all the gay men and women forced to live their lives in fear and desperation because love for them wasn't just disapproved of, it was fucking illegal. That's the truth that's behind Rockwell's nice little pictures of American life. 

But all Mikey does is snap back with some shit about my ‘anti-family values’ as if that’s what this is about, and not about my anti-bullshit values, and the fucking heap of it that he’s just pulled.

I’m about to really get into it with him when I hear Justin’s voice.

“Brian, let’s go.”

“Okay,” I say carefully, and put down the comic.

His coat is on, and as I move into the hallway, he’s already out the door. I’m pulling mine on when I hear her.

“Listen, asshole, you don’t have to ruin everyone’s evening just because the idea of someone actually getting married and being happy doesn’t fit into your little idea of the world according to Brian Fucking Kinney.”

I whirl on her. “And what would you know about being happily married, Mel?” I demand. “At last count, your marriage wasn’t looking all that fucking happy. Or have you found someone else already?”

I hear outraged ‘Brians’ hiss at me from all corners, as she spits back at me, “Well, at least I had the balls to try. You just haven’t got the guts to even make the attempt, and sooner or later Justin’s going to realize that the only reason you yell so loudly about what a crock marriage is, is that you’re too much of a fucking coward to even consider it, and then he won't want to know you. Who would?”

I sneer at her, determined not to let her see that she's got home with a couple of those shots, and I’m trying to find words to respond when Michael chirps in with, “You shouldn’t have come, Brian, if my lifestyle offends you so much. You should have just stayed away instead of …”

Before I can even open my mouth to tell him that he shouldn’t have fucking invited me, I’m almost elbowed out the way.

Fuck! This isn’t Sunshine … this is Supernova.

And it’s way to late to shut down the explosion now.

***

Justin

“Don’t you dare try to make this about Brian, you lying cheating pack of shit!”

I hear my voice, hear the anger, hear the hushed silence that falls on everyone as they try to work out what I’m talking about.

In the quiet, Lindsay says, in that sweetly reasonable voice of hers, “Justin, what …?”

But I don’t feel sweet. Or reasonable. I feel like I want to slaughter the lot of them. None of them had the least idea what was going on, but without any hesitation they all started to heap the blame on Brian.

Well … not this time. This time they’re not going to have any fucking excuse not to know exactly who has caused the problem here.

“Justin,” the little fucker says, “I know you’re upset, but …”

“Yeah, you fucking know alright! You know exactly what my problem is. You changed it! We had an agreement and you fucking changed it without even talking to me about it. And then you sprang it on me here. Doesn’t matter that we had a plan to launch it that sure as hell wasn't all about you having a grandstand moment in your living room, but, as usual, you just did whatever the fuck you wanted to do without even consulting me.”

“Well, this is a housewarming, celebrating Ben and I making a commitment to each other. It seemed …”

“It seemed like I wouldn’t fucking cause a scene here!” I snap. “Well, guess what? You’re fucking wrong about that. I’m more than happy to cause a scene and to fucking call you on your bullshit.”

“I just asked a few people, and they agreed that it was a better, clearer message without …”

‘Where the fuck do you get off asking anyone about it?’ I think even while I’m taking breath to respond. But I don’t let that distract me.

“Better for who?” I demand. “All your sanctimonious shit friends? Well, you’re wrong. You’re just fucking wrong. Because you’ve made yourself as bad as anyone else who says that there’s only one right way to live. You’re as bad as any homophobic prick telling me I’m damned because I don’t live the way they think I should.”

Clutching the comic, I wave it at him. 

“Well, you got your damned wedding issue - just the way you wanted it. And I hope you fucking like it, because it will be the last. You hear me? There will never be another Rage comic. Never!”

I finally hear Brian’s “Justin, stop!” and as his arms come round me, it triggers a memory of another night, another man who betrayed my trust in him. For a moment I feel swamped and my energy flags, but Brian’s there, supporting me just like he did that night outside Babylon, his arms strong and warm and sure.

From their shelter I look that little son of a bitch right in the eye. 

“You’re a complete and utter fucking asshole, Michael, and if I never see your hypocritical fucking face again it will be too fucking soon!”

Then I turn and walk out the door. Knowing that Brian will follow me.

Oh, fuck! 

Brian! 

What have I done?


	9. Reverberations #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys deal with the fall out from the housewarming party.

Brian

I’m too fucking afraid to say anything walking to the car. I don’t know whether I’m scared of what his response will be, or of what might come out of my mouth. 

I can feel some part of my life crumbling around me; something that I thought would be there forever. And somewhere in that there’s pain, and fear.

But what I’m mainly feeling right now is so fucking angry I can’t find words to express it. 

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Michael, of all people, should have some idea how badly hurt Justin was by the failure of the dreams he had - the dreams they both had - for the Rage movie. 

He was so fucking happy and excited when he got on that plane to LA. Trying to damp it down, so I wouldn’t think he was glad to be leaving me, but just radiant with pure fucking joy. He really was living his dream. Turning his art into a movie, making a big budget Hollywood film, for fuck’s sake, about a gay superhero that he’d created, he’d brought to life.

And then those fucking dickheads out there took it all away from him. First they tried to rewrite the character and turn him into some sexless twat, then, when they couldn’t do that, they just pulled the fucking plug. Assholes!

He didn’t say much about it when he got back. He didn’t have to. He was fucking crushed by it. Or he would have been if he were anyone but Justin. Being Justin, he picked himself up, took a deep breath and just kept on going. 

He’s tried so fucking hard to behave like it was all nothing, like losing his dream when he was in fucking touching distance didn’t completely gut him. Like those assholes didn’t damned well stomp all over his dreams, didn’t give him yet another kick in the balls, just like Hobbs and his father and fucking PIFA, and all the rest of them. He’s tried to settle back in here and just get on with things

But not with Rage. He hadn’t done a single drawing for Rage up until Mikey suggested this damned wedding issue. It was like he couldn’t bear to even look at that stuff any more. 

He wouldn’t have done this damned issue, except he believes that it will help fight for The Cause. He always has some fucking Cause or other. So he put aside all those feelings, all that pain, and did his best not to think about the movie and all that stuff every minute he was working on these fucking drawings, and now Mikey …

I’m not fucking stupid. I can work out what’s fucking happened. Mikey has seen fit to censor the one fucking panel that Justin actually wanted to draw. And then he’s sprung it all on him in front of all our friends so that there was fuck all Justin could do about it. In other words, he’s done just what those Hollywood assholes did; he’s taken all Justin’s work, and then just completely fucked him over.

It’s a good thing we left when we did, because I don’t want to punch Mikey out again, but I’m so fucking angry that …

When did my so-called best friend turn into this self-righteous self-important fucking asshole?

***

Justin

I can hardly drag myself to the car. Part of me just wants to fold up and die; sink down on the curb and just fade into nothing. I can’t believe that Michael did that. I can not fucking believe it. I don’t want to. I don’t want to believe that anyone that I’ve worked with on this thing for so long could be such a total fucking asshole to me. 

But I can’t believe that I said the things I did either. I guess all the anger that I’ve felt with him so often, and had to fight to keep suppressed, all the things I’ve bitten my tongue and forced myself not to say, finally all just spilled out.

Brian’s angry. He’s not saying anything, but he doesn’t have to, I can tell. 

At least he left with me. I half expected him to hand me the car keys or something and just bail on me. Not that I’d blame him. I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest and now they’ll all come after us - well, after Brian, because it won’t be long before they find a way to blame it all on him. They always do. 

Why the fuck couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? At least until I got Michael on his own.

Now …

Now I’ve created this big mess, and Brian …

Brian’s the one who’s going to have to wear it.

I feel tears stinging my eyes, and blink to try to keep them back. Fuck, Taylor! suck it up. 

I take a deep breath. I have to find a way to try to make this right. At least, to repair some of the damage.

“Brian,” I hear myself say, “You should just drop me at the loft and go back. You know, make it clear that …”

He stops the car with a jerk, right in the middle of the road, and swings his head round to look at me. Then he pulls over to the side, very slowly and carefully. When he’s parked safely, he stares off into the distance for a moment and then he says, “Do you really think I’d fucking do that?”

Trying to find a way not to make things worse, do even more damage, I can feel something in me start to crumble. I will not fucking cry over this. Michael’s important to him. I know that. I just wish …

If the ‘Vette was easier to get out of, I’d open the door and take off down the street, just to get away and not have to think about Michael, and Brian; and Brian and Michael. But getting out of this fucking car isn’t that easy, you practically have to climb out, and I’d probably fall on my ass and make an even bigger idiot of myself. So I stay put. 

Then I realize that staying and toughing it out is what I should do anyway. I’ve run away too often. And this time it was me that messed up, so the least I can do is …

“Do you?” he hisses.

I my heart starts to do something weird, feel some strange fluttering of a hope that I don’t dare reach for, and then he turns and looks into my eyes, and I finally fucking know for certain that it’s not me he’s angry with. Tears do spill then, I can’t help it. As I shake my head, I try to blink them back, but then he hooks his hand around my neck and, pulling my head into his shoulder, whispers fiercely into my hair, “Don’t let the little fucker get to you. He’s not fucking worth it.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, sniffing hard and trying not to get snot all over his jacket, because he’ll have a fit.

He huffs a laugh. “You know what I think about ‘sorry’,” he answers.

Then he holds me. Just holds me, while around me, and inside me, the world changes shape.

When I finally get myself together, and pull away from him, he opens the glove box and points to the tissues inside. I laugh and clean myself up.

Then we sit and look at each other for a few moments that might be a lifetime, so much changes between us while we do.

Suddenly the whole fucking thing about the comic seems ridiculously trivial. 

Or the most momentous thing that could have happened.

I’ve lived with the Brian and Michael dynamic all this time, all these years, known it to be the one inviolable in Brian’s life. The one thing that I couldn’t challenge. Didn’t dare to. And now …

While his eyes change from stormy green to warm hazel, and his tongue wanders into his cheek, I feel myself smiling at him, and even blushing a little. I wish I didn’t fucking do that. But …

I realize for the first time that I’ve been lying to myself all this time. I’ve always believed, wanted to believe, I guess, that the reason that I didn’t tackle Michael over all the shit he’s pulled was for Brian’s sake. So that he wouldn’t get caught in the middle. So that he wouldn’t have to take sides, to choose.

Now, I finally see that that was bullshit. The reason that I didn’t want Brian to have to choose between Michael and I wasn’t to spare Brian’s feelings; it’s because I’ve always been afraid that if I made him choose, he wouldn’t choose me.

Now I did. And he did. He has.

He leans towards me, and we kiss gently. Then he presses his forehead against mine. 

“This isn’t your fault,” he says. “Mikey’s been behaving like a fucking cunt for weeks, and it’s more than time someone called him on it.”

I shake my head a little, not wanting to talk about Michael, about any of it right now. I press a kiss to the side of his mouth. 

He chose me.

For the moment, all the anger has just drained out of me and I feel like leaping from the car and dancing down the street.

Brian’s chosen … me.

I kiss him again. Harder. And all the anger energy, and the relief energy and the happy energy coalesce suddenly into one intense pulse of pure desire for my partner.

“Take me home,” I demand. “I want to fuck.”

He laughs, and starts the car. We take off close to light speed; but not fast enough. Never fast enough.

I want him NOW.

***

Brian

One thing about fucking when you’re angry, even if it’s not with the person you’re fucking - maybe especially if it’s not with the person you’re fucking - is that the anger adds an edge so that all your senses are heightened. Maybe that’s why it finally sinks through my thick skull as some part of my mind watches the way his hands reach for me and his eyes fight to stay locked to mine even when he’s on the verge of coming and normally he’d have them squeezed tight shut the way his ass is squeezed tight around my cock, that he really had expected me to take Mikey’s side in all this.

Or at least, to not take any side. Not to stand at his side, anyway. Not to have his back on this.

Even fucking worse than that, I realize why. The first wave of that thought nearly makes me lose my erection, but then it makes me angrier - with him, with me, I don’t know. I settle for being angry with Mikey.

I don’t do fucking regrets. I don’t. They’re bullshit. You can’t change anything, so why waste time regretting shit you’ve done, or haven’t done? But I can’t hold back the waves of regret pouring over me as I realize what I’ve done. Or haven’t done.

All these years and I’ve never once had his back in his struggles with Michael. 

And there have been struggles. Despite the fact that they work on Rage together, their relationship has always had the element of a battle. Or maybe of an invasion - Justin moving in, taking over, while Mikey waged guerilla warfare from behind the shelter provided by Deb - and by me.

I would have to be a complete fucking idiot not to have figured out that if Michael had made that fucking “should have left him lying there” remark to me, then he’s probably said as much, if not worse, to Justin. But I let it go. I pretended it wasn’t happening. If I’d thought about it, I would have said that Justin’s a big boy and can fight his own battles. Which Christ knows he can. 

But not with both arms tied behind him.

And that’s how it’s been for him, all this time, because he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t fucking let Mikey have it the way he did tonight, because of me.

Because he didn’t want to hurt me, I guess. But also because he couldn’t fucking count on me.

I’ve always told my friends - told him - don’t count on me; you can’t count on me for anything.

So why is my gut aching when I realize that he’s never been able to count on me for this?

When, sweating and panting, we both finally get there, reach that always changing, always the same destination, I roll away from him. I feel him tense up beside me as I climb to my feet. We hadn’t quite got as far as the bed, barely made it in the door. Now I stand, and then reach down my hand to him. After a moment’s hesitation that goes through my gut like a knife, he takes it and lets me help him up.

That’s when I pull him close and kiss him, trying to say all the things with my body that I can’t find the words for. I’ve never been able to find the words for him. Even when my head felt like it was going to splinter into fragments, if I couldn’t find a way to tell him what I was feeling, I never could get my tongue around the words. Couldn’t trust myself enough to let them tumble from my lips.

Especially The Words. The words I’ve given only to Mikey. The ones about “love” and “always”. Those words.

I don’t even attempt them tonight. But I have to find something. I have to try to make this right. Sorry might be bullshit, but … he’s my fucking partner for Chrissakes. That should mean something. It has to mean something. Something about being able to count on me when, like tonight, some asshole tries to rip a little more of his hope, his trust, his fucking innocence away from him. I stood there and watched while his father did it because all I could do was make that worse, I was too fucking late to stop Hobbs, and I’ve been powerless against the Fiddler, and those fuckers at PIFA, and that psycho Cody, and the assholes out in Hollywood, but this time … this time he should have known I’d have his back. He should have been able to know that. To be sure of it. To be able to fucking take it as a given that I’d be there for him.

And he couldn’t. And that’s my fault. All this time I’ve turned a blind eye to all the bullshit that Mikey’s put him through. Worse than that, I’ve taught Justin not to fight back against Mikey, not to call him on his shit. 

Tonight, I have to let him know that all that shit stops now. From now on, it’s him and me against the world, if that’s what this turns out to be. We might get creamed, but at least we’ll go down fighting.

And together.

***

Justin

Brian’s kissing me, the most amazing kisses. Kisses that make me feel like no one else could ever make me feel. They make me feel … loved. Cherished, even. They make me know that he’s okay with what happened tonight. If he was angry, it wasn’t with me. It was with Mikey. And with the others, probably. Especially Mel. 

I like Mel. Sometimes. I really do. But sometimes, honestly, she’s just a bitch.

Especially to Brian.

I didn’t hear all she said tonight. I was out the door, on my way down the steps when I realized he wasn’t with me, and …

I was just going to walk away. I really was. But then I heard raised voices, so I went back to see what was keeping him, and heard the last part - the part about me not wanting to know Brian. And that made me mad as Hell before ever Mikey chimed in with his piece of shit.

Where the fuck does she get off, where do any of them get off, thinking, let alone saying, something like that. She thinks I don’t know Brian? Fuck!

She sees him what? Once in a blue moon when they have to share some space because Lindsay’s forced them to?

I’ve fucking lived with him for four years. 

All right, technically, I wasn’t living here all that time. But really, that’s how long I’ve been moving in and out of the loft. And even when I haven’t been living here, even when I was with Ethan, I saw more of Brian than Mel ever has.

Why do they still think of me as being some stupid little kid who has to be protected from Big Bad Brian? Or worse, as some stupid fuck who just can’t see what Brian’s like?

I know him.

I know that he fights so hard against any sort of commitment 'cause it fucking terrifies him. I know that.

I know that he can’t tell me he loves me because he’s too scared to, too scared of the power he thinks it would give me over him.

I know that too.

I know that he’s never going to want to settle down in some nice house in the suburbs, and have a dog; or a live in kid; and hold barbeques for the neighbors on the Fourth of July. Or even stunningly catered affairs for his friends; unless they’re for business, maybe.

I know all that.

And I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of it.

Because I also know that he loves me. I know that when things have been at their worst for me - after Hobbs, and after Hollywood - he’s been there to help me piece myself together. I know that he cares about me, and he cares about his friends, whatever they may think, and that he loves me in all the ways he can. I know he’s finding more ways to do that every day.

They might not see that, but that’s because they don’t know him, whatever they may think. They weren’t here when I had nightmares night after night, and he soothed me, and held me, and loved me, even before I could let him have sex with me again. They weren’t here when I told him about the Hollywood offer, and saw something die in his eyes; or when I came back, and saw it slowly come alive again, partly because he saw how much I needed him to help me bear the disappointment that felt like something gnawing at my gut so that I hardly knew how to get through from moment to moment with the pain of it. They weren’t here to see how his loving me, and hating all those assholes for what they’d done to me, somehow did more than anything else to help me get myself back together and face everyone as if I was fine, and who gave a shit about the movie.

They’re not here with us right now, while he’s kissing me, and making sure that I know he’s got my back on this. They don’t hear his tongue stumbling over words like “fucker” and “don’t hold back”. So I know that whatever mess that I’ve caused tonight, we’re in it together, and he’s not going to hold back from me, he’s going to support me.

Like I should have known he would, because he always fucking has. Whenever I’ve really needed him to, he has. 

So fuck them!

And, of course, as I think that, the phone starts to ring.

***

Brian

We both stand and stare at it for a moment or two, then we share a glance. He grins, and says, “I bet Debbie.”

I consider. Deb. Mikey. Linds. Lots of options.

I go with Linds. They’d line her up as the peace keeping force.

“What’s the bet?” I ask.

He laughs. “If I’m right, you have to talk to her,” he dares me.

The machine picks up.

We’re both wrong.

It’s Ted, of all people.

And what he says strikes the pair of us completely fucking dumb.

“Brian,” he starts off, not even sounding fucking nervous.

“I thought that you should know that I’ve collected all the copies of the comic, and that I’ve advised Michael that before he considers circulating them he should consult a lawyer. I checked with Mel and she admits that there’s something in their contract that says that they have to agree on the content of every issue, so if Michael’s changed something without Justin’s consent, then he’s in breach of contract, and Justin could sue.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and if I was less dumbfounded, I might have picked up the phone. I might even have had to say thank you.

“Just thought that Justin would like to know,” he finishes up. “I’ll, ah … see you Monday at work.”


	10. Reverberations #10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian comes to a realization. Debbie comes for a visit.

I’m so stunned after Ted’s call that I can only stare at the machine. I want to replay the message to make sure I heard it right. I’m almost reaching for the button when Brian gives a laugh and my eyes go back to him.

He looks surprised too; but I can tell that he’s pleased, even if he is hiding that reaction under his usual Kinney-front. 

“Good ol’ Theodore,” he says, “Always looking out for the bottom line.”

I want to say something, something about how overwhelmed I am, how shocked that Ted, of all people, would take a stand against anything Michael did. Especially if it meant taking Brian’s side against dear little Mikey. But that all sounds so childish that I can’t find words to express what I mean without sounding like a bratty six year old. And anyway, maybe it isn’t all that surprising. 

I mean, Brian and Ted have become much closer over the past year. I saw that for myself when Ted confronted me at Babylon that time he thought I’d left Brian and was there to rub Brian’s nose in it. 

Plus, there have been all the cracks Michael has been making about it being time that Brian grew up and all that stuff; about how pathetic it was for someone Brian’s age to still be hanging out at Babylon. I guess Ted might feel that they apply even more to him. I mean, he’s older than Brian anyway, and he did go through all that shit with the hair color and plastic surgery and stuff earlier in the year; mainly so that he could do better with the guys at Babylon and the gym. So I guess he could be just as hurt as Brian by all the things Michael’s been saying, even if Michael wasn’t directly talking about him at the time.

All of that flashes through my mind really quickly, and just as I’m thinking that Ted might be as pissed off as Emmett was the other day, the phone rings again. This time, because we haven’t cleared the other message, it goes straight to voice mail. 

Somehow I’m not surprised this time that it’s Emmett himself.

His first words seem to be to Ted, because he’s saying something like “you should have let me say something before you hung up”.

Then he realizes he’s recording and says, sounding kind of flustered, “Oh, oh, well … Justin, honey, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, and to let you know that Auntie Em thinks you did the right thing. Love you. Talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and Brian too.”

I’m trying to get my head around that when Brian moves away and up the steps to the bedroom. 

I suddenly remember that he’s supposed to be heading to some sex party tonight, and although I’d rather he were staying here with me, I don’t want to make a big thing about it either.

Instead, I go into the kitchen and check the refrigerator to see if there’s anything I can turn into a quick snack. Stress always makes me hungry.

Once the refrigerator door is open though, I find myself straining to listen to Brian moving around in the bedroom, and trying to work out what he’s doing. When I hear the closet door open and close, and realize that he’s getting changed, I feel this sudden wave of anger surge through me. Fuck!

I don’t care if he goes and fucks fifty guys. It’s not about that. It’s just … I want him here tonight. I want to feel like … I feel my eyes stinging, and have to take deep breaths to try to stay calm.

When he comes down the steps from the bedroom I force myself not to look at him, not to check what he’s wearing, because that will only get me thinking how hot he looks, and wondering how many guys he’s going to fuck, and I’m so not going there.

I’m not Michael, and I neither want, nor expect Brian to deny himself what is to him a simple, uncomplicated pleasure and a way to deal with his own stress. Some guys play golf, Brian has anonymous sex. It really isn’t any different, and just because tonight I’m feeling … I don’t know … upset, whatever, I can’t … I won’t, turn into a total pussy and demand that he stays at home with me.

I know his response to that kind of bullshit will be something like, “We’re not married, Sunshine.”

And it’s when he says things like that that I realize why he’s so against marriage.

For Brian, marriage is all about having to do things because you’re obligated to do them, because you’re expected to do them. It’s about being nagged and hounded if you don’t live up to those obligations and expectations. It’s about handing over your freedom to really be yourself, to do what’s right for you, to someone else in exchange for some bullshit idea of safety. He sees it as some pathetic trade off, trying to strike a bargain with Fate that if you give up your life as an individual, you’ll never be alone; you’ll never be lonely.

No wonder he’s so vocal about what a crock he thinks it is.

For me, that’s not what marriage is at all. For me it’s about trusting that the other person will want you to do what’s right for you, that they’ll support you and go on loving you; and that you will each be able to be yourself, more than ever, because you support each other to do that.

So while I hate that Brian feels the way he does about marriage; and sometimes it hurts when I think about how it means we’re never going to marry, what makes me so fucking sad is the irony of it all. 

Because the thing is that it was Brian who taught me what marriage can be. I learned what’s important in a relationship not from watching “nice” married couples like Mel and Lindsay, or Ben and Michael, and certainly not from my parents. I learned them from Brian. I learned about freedom from how Brian has always encouraged me, forced me even, to pursue my own dreams in my own way. I learned about support from how Brian has always supported me in doing that - from helping me with that lame club at school, to pushing me onto the plane to LA. In a way, what I think marriage is, is what I already have with Brian.

So what makes me really sad about his whole anti-marriage thing is that Brian can’t see that. It hurts that he doesn’t feel the same way. I guess because it makes me think he doesn’t feel that same unstinting support from me.

That’s why it’s so important to me that I don’t go all clingy and turn into his worst nightmare when something’s happened to stress him out and he needs to take off and get blown in some backroom somewhere just to unwind a little. Even when, like tonight, I’m feeling my own stresses and I’d like him to stay with me and fuck me into the mattress to get rid of them. I can’t always be putting my own needs first. I have to let him know that it’s okay for him just to be him. That he doesn’t have to live up to some bullshit expectation for me to feel okay about our relationship.

Because I do.

***

Brian

When I hear him open the door to the fridge, it pretty much torpedoes any lurking hope that he might share my belief that heading off together to this sex party would not just be a great way to unwind and off load some of the stress that Mikey’s damned housewarming has caused, but also the perfect way to blow off all the people who think they know us, think they know what’s best for us, what we want, what we need.

I didn’t really expect him to, though. He hasn’t said anything about it, but he hasn’t been tricking a lot since he got back from LA. I think he’s still a spooked by his little brush with the wonderful world of STDs. Okay, I know he is. So Justin’s coming out to party with me was never going to happen. Which just leaves me to work out what I’m going to do now.

Once, I would have just gone, without a second thought. That was “Before”. Before the bashing. Before he became so much a part of my life that nothing was the same any more.

Then, before Ethan, I would have gone because I felt like I had to go, like too much was changing if I didn’t; because it felt too much like giving in, giving him control. So I would have put on my sluttiest clothes and just headed out. Only problem with that little scenario was that I would then have spent the night feeling like shit, and consuming even more drugs and alcohol than usual just to live with the image of the hurt in his eyes.

Even last year, before the cancer, before LA, before really knowing how much there is to lose, and how easy losing it could be, I would have gone. I might have “discussed” it with him; given him the option of either assuring me that it was okay (whatever he really felt), or being shot down by one of my famous “we’re not married, Sunshine” speeches.

Fuck! Before Mikey’s little stunt tonight, I might still have pulled that one, dickhead that I am.

But it’s not “Before”. It’s now. And right now, I might be stressed, and pissed off by what happened tonight, but for once, it’s not about me. It’s about him. About my fucking partner, about the one person I really want to know that he can count on me. It’s about the fact that he’s the one who was really hurt by what happened tonight; about how it built on all the other hurts he’s taken in the past few years. About that fact that the least he deserves from me is that I don’t add any more hurt right now. About the fact that he deserves my support, my understanding. My love, even, for what that’s worth.

So blowing him off and heading out to some fuck party to get my dick attended to really isn’t an option. It’s counter productive to my goals, as the little shit told me once. At least, it is if I want to show him who I want to be, show him how I want things to be for us.

So now’s the time that instead of living down to everyone else’s expectations, I get a chance to live up to some of my own expectations of myself. Not his expectations of me. Mine.

I’ve always said it’s not about what you say; it’s about your actions, what you actually fucking do. So what am I going to do right now, this minute, while my partner’s out there trying not to turn my taking off on him into some big soapy drama?

For once, the answer to that one is easy.

I pull on my sweats and an old tee and head down to him.

***

Justin

I’m still standing in front of the fridge when I hear him come down the stairs. I’m determined, absolutely determined, not to make a big thing out of this, so when he comes up behind me, and the scent of his citrus spice cologne tingles my nose, I tilt my head back against him and say, “You smell good. You’ll have all the pretty boys wanting to lick you to death.”

He huffs a laugh. “Why don’t you come with me and protect me?”

I just shake my head and finally start pulling some food out of the fridge. “I’m just going to have something to eat, and then maybe watch a movie or something. I’ll see you later.”

I admit that I’m avoiding looking at him.

I’m trying to be okay with this. I am. And I will be.

But …

If he looks into my eyes he’ll see that I’m not, not right now. 

He reaches past me and for some bizarre reason opens the door of the freezer. While I stand, trying to work out what he’s doing, he stretches one long finger out to tap on the lid of the container that holds the sinfully delicious, top of the range, high fat content icecream that’s the only kind he’ll eat … and then only if it’s served right.

Not wanting to think about other things, I concentrate on the image of him and the icecream, and idly contemplate what a mass of contradictions he is. He bitches and moans about how much extra work he’ll have to do if he has so much of a mouthful of that stuff, but suggest buying a low fat brand and he practically faints from the horror of the prospect of eating any of that “tasteless cheap shit”.

While his finger strokes the container, his breath is hot on my neck, a nice contrast to the cold air still spilling over me from the open doors.

I want to believe this means he’s actually going to hang around here and not go to that damned party, but I’m still afraid to turn and look at him. Instead, I let my hand wander back to his thigh. I suppose I’m sort of thinking that maybe I can find a way to persuade him to stay here with me, but when my fingers come in contact with the thick cotton of his sweat pants, I realize that I’ve been played. Or rather, that I’ve played myself.

My breath huffs out in something like a long gasp of relief, and I lean back against him. He takes that as the invitation it probably is, and pulls the icecream from the freezer, at the same time running his tongue around my ear.

“Fancy an icecream feast, Sunshine?” he purrs, his free hand reaching past me on the other side to swing both the doors shut.

I turn in his arms, suddenly just not wanting to think any more.

I want to feel … feel him, feel me; feel happy, feel relieved, feel loved.

He’s here. He stayed here with me. For me. And there are no words that could tell him how grateful I am. There are actions, though; and as his tongue touches mine, I lift one leg and hook it round his thigh, pulling his groin tight against mine.

He laughs, a deep low rumble, and wrapping one arm round my waist, lifts me, and more or less carries me out to the couch.

There are times when actions truly do speak louder than words, especially where Brian is concerned and tonight he shouted from the rooftops how much things have changed between us, how much he loves me. So now I concentrate on making sure that my actions speak just as loudly. Not just about what it means to me that he stayed here with me, but about how it affects the way I see our relationship. Tonight was a milestone for me in really believing that Brian believes in us, that Brian is willing to fight for us, to put us first; that Brian really wants us. I’ve always known that he wanted me. But understanding that he wants us to work as much as I do, I think maybe that’s new. I think that’s what I’ve always wondered about. And now, for some stupid reason, it’s suddenly clear to me.

Guess it seems dumb that it’s taken me this long, but there have been so many ups and downs, so many things that have fucked things up between us at various times - the bashing, Stockwell, Brian’s cancer, the damned movie. It didn’t help that I was so young when we started; or that Brian carries around so much baggage from all the years before he met me. Not just from his childhood, but from all the times his so-called friends saw fit to treat him like shit. They not only enabled his worst behavior, they gloated in it. It made them feel so superior, so much more evolved. 

Anger surges in me, but I don’t want to think about them right now. I don’t want to think about anything; and I don’t want Brian to either. While he moves round trying to make sure we won’t be interrupted, I strip off my clothes. Then, as he finally comes to me, I pick up the icecream. I just need to fetch a spoon. I wiggle my ass at him as I head for the kitchen, and on the way back, I sway my hips so that my half erect cock swings heavily.

He’s naked now, spread out not on the couch, but on the chaise longue, and it’s not the thought of the icecream that has my mouth watering.

***

Brian 

Last night, before we started in on the icecream, I took time out to switch off all the phones, turned down the speaker on the machine, locked the door and switched on the alarm. This morning, though, I’m still deliberately avoiding checking to see if there are more messages. While he goes right on sleeping, his breath a slight wheezy rattle, I piss, clean my teeth, put the coffee on, and then, figuring he deserves … something, to refuel, at least … after his stellar performance last night, I pull on my coat to jog down and get him some of those wicked pastries he likes so much for breakfast.

He didn’t wake up when I left the bed, which means he must be totally wrecked. I’m not surprised. I’m feeling a bit worn myself. But he … he excelled himself. One of those times when I can only hang on while he rides my cock and hope to Hell he doesn’t break it off. Fuck! but it was hot.

For a moment, I’m ready to thank my lucky stars or whatever that I didn’t go out last night. I sure as Hell wouldn’t have found anything half as hot at that lame-assed party.

Then, with a sudden shock, I realize luck had nothing to do with it. Not last night. Last night _**I chose**_ to stay with him. I made a decision, and for once, I didn’t fuck it up. Not because it was the so-called “right” thing to do. Or not only that. But because … because I came out the winner all the way around.

I not only had a spectacular fuck … series of fucks … but I got to share them with the man who really has become my partner. Then this morning I got to wake up and I didn’t have to feel like a total shit because for once I hadn’t behaved like a complete fuckwit whose only brain is in his pants. So now I get to feel like maybe I’m finally getting a clue, and maybe I can give him enough for him not to have to leave me; that maybe he isn’t going to have to go to someone else to get the kind of love he needs, the kind of love he deserves. I get to feel that maybe I can actually give him that, and what’s more, I can give it to him without having to cut my balls off to do it.

It’s a revelation, boys and girls. It’s a fucking epiphany.

With a rush that makes me feel like … I don’t know, like I can handle anything, as long as he’s with me, I bound up the stairs.

First, I’ll make sure that the coffee’s okay. Then I’ll clear all those messages. Then I’ll wake him up, and feed him pastries in bed, and lick all the sugar from his lips, and then …

All those plans are put on hold when I open the door and hear her voice.

***

Justin

When the pounding at the door starts I wait for Brian to respond to it. Then it gradually seeps through my brain that he’s not in bed with me. Shit! I must have been more tired than I thought; I nearly always wake up at least when he gets out of bed in the morning, even if I do go straight back to sleep. While I haul myself up and pull on enough clothing to at least be able to answer the door, my mind is making some sort of inventory of the sounds in the loft. No shower, no tuneless humming while he shaves, in fact no noise of any movement round the loft, just that damned pounding and … my heart, that had begun to lurch a little for some weird-assed reason, settles back into a steady rhythm as I take in the burps and gurgles coming from the coffee maker in the kitchen. Wherever Brian is, he hasn’t gone far, and he’s not planning to be long.

Warmed and bolstered by that thought, and by the sting in my ass, and the sweet ache of my muscles, I haul the door open.

Debbie.

It figures.

I hope wherever he is Brian stays away long enough for me to deal, and get rid of her. He so doesn’t need her shit on top of everything else.

She stomps in, her eyes darting around the loft.

“Where is he?” she demands. “I want to talk to that asshole right now.”

I stifle the urge to tell her to take herself off to Mikey’s in that case. “He’s not here,” I say quietly. “What do you want, Deb?”

“You know what I want, Sunshine. I want you and that asshole to apologize for making a shambles of my son’s party.”

I shake my head. I know my best hope of getting rid of her in a hurry would be just to agree, but I can’t. I just can’t. And the fact that she’s here, pushing Mikey’s agenda in our faces is just making me angry all over again.

“Ain’t gonna happen, Deb,” I tell her flatly.

She bristles, even the hair in her wig seeming to fizz with indignation. 

“You owe me that much, you ungrateful little shit,” she says. “You both do.”

I look at her for a moment, weighing my options; but I’m angry, and I’m sick of this shit, so despite the fact that I’m afraid Brian’s going to walk back into the middle of it, I finally figure, what the hell, and just let it spill, even though I know she’s probably never going to really hear what I’m saying.

“I’m not Brian,” I tell her, quietly. “You can’t play that game with me.”

She stares at me, her face going red and her jaw sticking out. “What the fuck does that mean? Listen, Sunshine, I took you in when your own family …”

“You took me in. Yes. And I will always be grateful for that. But you can’t play on that with me the way you do with Brian. You can’t use it to get me to let Michael off the hook every single time he fucks up.”

She glares at me, but before she can say anything, I go on, the words spilling out of me, my voice getting louder now, “You’ve always done that to Brian. Always. You still do. You twist things and somehow make him responsible for everything that goes wrong with Michael, and if you can’t do that, you make him feel guilty if he doesn’t at least put everything else in his life aside to clean up whatever mess Michael has made. And Brian’s always let you.”

I look her in the eye and lean forward a little so I’m right in her face.

“But I’m not Brian,” I repeat, “and that game doesn’t work with me. Brian wasn’t responsible for what happened last night. I was the one who let Michael have it, and there is no way that I’m apologizing to him. He more than asked for it. He behaved like a total shit, and then he goes running to you and everyone else crying about how mean I was to him when I called him on it.

“Well, you know what?” I shout into her astonished face, “Too bad! Too fucking bad if his party got messed up. He should have thought of that before he changed the one fucking panel I wanted put into that stupid fucking comic and then sprung it on me in the middle of his party, like the sly lying little sack of shit that he is.”

I guess I know what’s coming because I’m already starting to duck when her hand comes up. But before she can swing, her arm is caught, held, in a tight grip and a harsh voice that I hardly recognize says, “You. Do. Not. Hit. Him … in the head. You hear me? You don’t do that. You don’t ever do that.”

Fuck me!

One look into his face, and all thought of Debbie, Michael, or anyone else has gone. I move towards him and he lets go of her to put his hand on the back of my neck, squeezing it gently. I wrap my arms around his waist and kiss his chin and he presses his forehead against mine for a moment. 

Then, together, we turn to Debbie. Her eyes are on Brian, wide and startled. She’s been shocked into silence, and her cheeks are white under her makeup, the blush suddenly too red, turning her face into a clown-like mask.

“Brian,” she says, all worried Mom now. He lifts his head to stare down at her. I can still feel the tension radiating from him.

Her eyes turn to me, and suddenly they fill with tears, “Sunshine, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I didn’t think …”

Brian snorts, and somehow I know he’s thinking just what I’m thinking - that that’s probably just what that asshole Hobbs said, “I didn’t mean … I didn’t think …”

Like somehow that makes it okay to lash out at someone - as long as you don’t think about it first, it’s alright. What a load!

But I can’t think about that right now. 

I step forward a little, putting myself between Brian and Deb, keeping her attention on me, so Brian can have time to get his head back from the space that he only visits in nightmares; never, if he can help it, while he’s awake. 

“Deb, the thing is … this is between Michael and me. It doesn’t involve Brian, it shouldn’t involve you.”

“You’re both my boys,” she protests, but feebly.

I smile at her. “We’re big boys now. We have to fight our own battles, and clean up our own messes.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and then, to my horror, the tears that had been threatening, spill down her cheeks.

“Why is he behaving like this?” she wails. “It’s just like when he was with David. He just … he just turns into someone I don’t even know.”

I pat her arm helplessly, while behind me I feel more than hear Brian sigh. He walks off towards the kitchen.

“If you want to turn off the fucking drama, you can have some coffee,” he says over his shoulder. “But it’s too early in the morning for this.”

She settles herself on the couch, obviously determined now to talk this thing to death, and shakes her head at me. “Sweetheart, I don’t blame you for being mad at him.” 

I grimace, and sit beside her. “Deb, I meant it. You should stay out of it.” I might as well have saved my breath.

“I was right there in the diner when you two were planning how you were going to launch this issue,” she says, as if I hadn’t said a word. “It was such a great idea. Such a good way support the cause and get publicity for the comic.”

Well, she obviously had been listening, because that was just what we’d worked out, why we’d decided to do it that way.

“And then he just …”

She looks at me again with those lost eyes, and I feel myself getting angry with Michael for all new reasons. “I don’t understand him, Justin. I really don’t. He’s been so … so spiteful … not just to you, or to that asshole you live with…” Brian walks in just then to hand her a cup of coffee and a Danish, and she gives him a ghost of Debbie’s normal shit-stirring grin, before going on “but to everyone. To Emmett, even. And God knows, poor Emmett deserves better from him. Em’s never been anything but a good friend to Michael, but the other day that son of mine was in the diner telling me how ridiculous those new friends of his thought Emmett’s TV show was, and how Michael was embarrassed to admit that he knew him, and how it was a relief when they took it off the air. And poor Emmett walked in. I didn’t know where to look.”

Her voice wobbles, and she looks so sad that instead of wanting to kick her out, I want, more than ever, to kick Michael’s ass from here to Harrisburg for making her feel this way.

To everyone’s surprise, including his own, probably, Brian sits down next to her and gives her a big kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t worry about it, Maw,” he advises. “Mikey’s just a bit carried away with the whole suburbia thing. He’ll grow out of it.”

Over her head, our eyes meet, and the rueful grin in his lets me know he had other plans for this morning than comforting Deb over the behavior of her asshole son, but … she’s our Mom too, I guess. With a stifled sigh, I head for the kitchen to fetch the coffee pot, and some more of the pastries. Looks like she might be here a while.


	11. Reverberations #11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finally shares his thoughts about his relationship with Gus.

Brian

I’m thinking it’s going to be hours before we get rid of Deb, but when I start clearing all the messages from the machine and she hears the shit that Mikey’s been laying on Justin, she gets all fired up and nothing little Sunshine can say can stop her heading out of here to let her son know what she thinks of the way he’s behaving.

Part of me would like to be a fly on that wall, but mostly I know I’m well out of it. And now we finally have the place to ourselves again, so I’m wondering if he’d still be interested in the couple of pastries I stashed away for him when he says, “I promised Mom I’d go to see her today. Do you want to come?”

He gets one of my death stares for that. Of course I fucking want to come - but not to his mother’s. He grins at me and wiggles his hips as he heads for the bathroom. I sigh. Looks like I’ll have to settle for a shower. Oh, well. If I put the pastries away in something airtight they’ll keep till he gets back from Mommy’s.

*****

Justin

It’s good to spend some time with Mom, and it gives Brian some time to process how he’s going to deal with Michael without any pressure from me. He was thinking about going to the gym when I left, but I don’t know if he would … I think he was worried about maybe bumping into Michael and Ben. 

Even I couldn’t believe the stuff that Michael said in those voice mail messages, and I’m used to expecting pretty much anything from him when he thinks I’ve stopped him getting his way over something. I don’t know who he was most mad at - me for calling him on his shit, or Brian for not smacking me down for doing it. Kept whining on about how he’d never stand by and let anyone talk to Brian that way, which is such a crock. How he could possibly come out with that one after all the shit those assholes threw at Brian during that damned dinner party, while Michael just stood by agreeing with them is fucking beyond me. What a fucking hypocrite he is. Michael always expects Brian to put his “best friend’s” feelings first, but he never considers Brian’s at all, unless it suits him.

I give Emmett a call on the way home from Mom’s so that’s out of the way and hopefully that means there’ll be be one less person hammering our door down.

Emmett tells me that Deb came home really upset. She hadn’t been able to reach Michael and Ben. They weren’t answering their phones, and she didn’t want to go all the way over there if they weren’t going to be home. Anyway, apparently they’ve made a point of telling her that she should wait to be invited. Not that that would stop Deb normally, but according to Emmett she’s pretty much pissed off with them over the fact that they never have invited her and Carl over for dinner, so she’s sort of pointedly waiting for that invitation. Problem being that of course Michael and Ben don’t even seem to have noticed that. Color me surprised. I mean, they’re both so “sensitive” and “caring”. Yeah, right.

But even I can’t believe they’ve never had her over there. Those friends of theirs - Esau and Jacob or whatever their names are - have been to dinner at least three times that I know about. Michael had to dash off from two of our meetings about the comic to get ready for them, and then there was the infamous dinner party when we got invited as well. But Michael’s never invited his mother? I mean, I guess I don’t invite Mom to the loft, either. But that’s different. We don’t actually invite anyone to the loft. Most of them show up more than enough without any invitations. And nice cozy dinner parties aren’t exactly our idea of a good time. But if you’re into that whole thing, then you could at least invite your Mom once, surely. Especially when she can bring her partner and you can play at that whole suburban couples thing together. 

Which reminds me that Mom actually tried to persuade me that going out to dinner with her and that Tucker would be a good idea. I mean, she even wanted me to bring Brian. As if!

The thought makes me grin, and I make a note to remember to tell Brian; at least that will be one laugh for today.

I walk back into the loft to find the air is hot and syrupy with tension. Brian, determinedly nonchalant, is sitting on the floor playing cars with Gus. Lindsay is perched on the edge of the couch, and I can’t help but notice the way the high spots of angry color in her cheeks make such a strong statement in the monochrome palette of the loft. I stoop to ruffle Gus’ hair, and exchange a look with Brian that substitutes for the ‘welcome home’ kiss we’d share if we were alone. There are times when Brian’s reluctance to engage in PDAs makes perfect sense to me, and this is one of them.

As I’m straightening up, Lindsay says prissily, “I don’t appreciate being threatened, Brian.”

Uh oh.

Gus smiles up at me with his father’s slow shy smile, and says sweetly, “Hi, Dus!”

“Hi, Gus!” I respond, ignoring Lindsay for the time being, in case the words trembling on my tongue spill out in front of her son. “You want to come with me and get a drink and a cookie?”

He jumps up happily, and while Lindsay bristles, Brian shoots me a look that only an expert in Kinney-ese would recognize as one of gratitude.

“We’ll wash our hands first,” I tell Gus and he scampers ahead of me up the steps and into the bathroom before Lindsay can intervene. I shut the bathroom door and take as long as I can over the hand washing before taking Gus down to the kitchen and keeping him occupied choosing between milk and juice, and selecting a cookie.

Brian and Lindsay are talking quietly but intensely and I keep Gus with me till Lindsay finally stands up and calls Gus, telling him they’re going home. 

She gives me a tight smile as Gus hugs me goodbye, and purses her lips in that angry WASP look she shares with my mother when Gus launches himself at Brian. He hugs his father tightly, giving him two big wet kisses. 

“One for now and one for Ron” he tells Brian giggling. 

Those words make Lindsay’s expression become even more pinched and prune like. The “one for Ron” game was something Brian started one day when both he and Gus had become fed up with Mel’s seemingly incessant “you can do it/have it/play with it ‘later on’”; it’s seriously as if she never wants Gus to have any fun with Brian, to have any pleasurable experiences at all while Brian’s around, so everything fun has to be postponed till after he’s gone. But Brian’s had the best fun at her expense, because now saving things for ‘Ron’ has become a private game between him and his son.

Brian grins back at Gus now and returns the kisses loudly, “One for Gus”, with a slurpy smack of lips against Gus’ cheek, another sloppy kiss, and then Gus’ voice chimes delightedly above his father’s deep rumble, “and one for Ron!” They grin at each other and hug again.

“Love you, Dadda,” Gus says.

“Me too,” Brian responds and Gus giggles again.

It’s their little farewell ritual and it’s so damned cute Brian’s said it makes him want to puke. That’s what he’s said. But right now his eyes are bright, and his hand ruffles his son’s hair with a restrained tenderness that makes my throat ache.

Linds and Gus leave, and the loft falls silent. Brian’s eyes aren’t bright now, they’re dark and stormy, his mouth held in a tight straight line.

I know better than to push. If he wants me to know what’s going on between him and the Munchers, he’ll find a way to tell me. If he doesn’t, me pushing will only trigger one of his frantic little boundary keeping episodes. They still bother me - but not because I’m as needy as I was, not because I’m desperate for Brian to “share” with me as some sort of proof of my place in his life the way I used to be. Now they bother me because it’s such a strong symptom of all the hurts in his life that he still feels the need to guard himself that way. I guess now they bother me for Brian’s sake, and not for mine.

So instead of making a big thing of whatever had been going down with Lindsay, I tell him about Mom’s dinner invitation. 

As I expect he gives a bark of harsh laughter. Then, which I don’t expect, he says, “You should go though.”

I shrug. I do feel a bit guilty that I’ve given Mom such a hard time over Tucker. But, I mean, seriously! It’s hard not to react badly when your Mom suddenly turns around and gets herself a hot boytoy. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just sighs and gets up to go to the bathroom. I’m standing at the fridge, trying to find something that we could maybe have for lunch when he comes back. He takes a bottle of water and drinks about half of it in one long swallow. I watch his throat work, fascinated as always by how long and beautiful a line it makes. 

He catches my eye and there’s a shade of a grin in his as he pulls down a glass and pours the rest of the water into it.

I find the container with the pastries in and pull those out. Then I start to make coffee. He stands watching, sipping at his water. Finally he says quietly, “She’s moving back in with Mel.”

I turn around surprised. I sure as hell haven’t seen any sign that they were ready to kiss and make up. 

He pulls a face, “Just to save on expenses,” he says in a fairly good impersonation of Lindsay in sweet and reasonable WASP mode. 

I stare at him. “Well, that’s fucked!” 

He nods. 

“I mean, they should either get back together or just move on,” I go on. “It doesn’t make any sense to share the same house if they’re both just going to be miserable.”

He shrugs. “Apparently they’ve gone through just about all their savings since Linds moved out.”

I’m busy with the coffee and not looking at him when he says, even more quietly, so that I only just catch it, “She wanted some money to help get them back on their feet.”

I force myself not to throw the coffee pot at the wall. Of course she did. Brian’s been giving her money for her rent, and money for Gus, plus he paid for the lawyer for the custody hearings … and she still wants fucking more. Some days I don’t know which one of them I think treats Brian worse. At least Mel is honest about hating him. Linds professes to love him, and still treats him like shit, like he only really matters to her when she wants something.

When Brian is out of the equation, I like Lindsay and Melanie. I do. And they’ve been good to me. Lindsay even leaned on her boss to get a couple of pieces of my work included in the “emerging artists” show the gallery has coming up next week (fuck! it’s next week!). But the way they both treat Brian just drives me nuts. I can’t interfere though. Especially not today. Not after last night. So I just finish making the coffee, and then let it set for a moment while I get the cups down.

I hear him sigh, and then he says, his voice raw, “I asked her how much Michael was contributing.”

That just about stops me in my tracks, but I don’t want to interrupt the flow so I keep on with what I’m doing without saying anything, without even looking at him.

His voice is so bitter and mocking as he goes on that it seems to burn my ears. “She explained that since Mikey has joint custody of JR, and looks after her for one third of the time, that he doesn’t have to give them anything.”

I do turn then, I can’t help myself. I find myself looking into eyes that are brimming with years of hurt; a whole lifetime’s worth, concentrated into this moment.

He gives a half laugh, and his lips twist into that self-mockingly bitter line that I hate, that makes me ache inside. 

“I told her it didn’t seem fair that Mikey got to have his kid, without any other contribution, while all I get to do is hand over my checkbook.” 

As he pauses and sucks in a deep painful breath I can only stare at him. 

“She said that I never wanted to be Gus’ father anyway, and I shouldn’t pretend that I am now, shouldn’t make like I’m ready to be part of his life; that I’m never going to be ready to take responsibility for him the way Michael has for JR.”

Bitch! I think violently. Fucking cunt bitch!

“I told her if I wasn’t his father, then why the fuck should I pay a fucking penny for anything?” His face twists once more and he looks away, trying to hide his pain. “That’s when you walked in.”

He looks back at me then, his head up, trying to keep the pain from his face, but only succeeding in making it even more obvious. 

“We should talk to them, see if we can have Gus here more,” I urge.

“Fuck no!” he almost screams, shocking me into silence.

“Jesus!” he says, and turns away, walking off.

“Brian, why not? If they expect you to pay maintenance for Gus then …”

He stops, whirls in his tracks and stalks back towards me.

“Do you remember the last time we baby sat?” he demands. “Do you?”

“Yes, of course I do. We had a great time.” I can’t see where he’s going with this.

“Do you remember why we had to stay with Gus longer than we planned?”

He’s standing right in front of me now. Looming down at me, his eyes the dark muddy color that means he’s really upset.

“Because JR got taken to the hospital,” I say uncertainly, trying to work out what he’s getting at.

He nods. 

Then he turns away and grips the counter with both hands, his knuckles white and strained. “What do you think would have happened if that had been Gus?” he asks.

I see it then, see what he’s afraid of; realize that he’s right to be afraid. I’m trying to find words that will give him some sort of reassurance without sounding like totally bullshit platitudes, but I can’t think of any. I can only touch his hand. He nods in acknowledgement of all I’m not saying. 

“How long do you think it would have been before they’d let me near my son again?” he asks, his voice harsh with the tears he won’t let fall.

Oh, Brian! my mind wails silently, as I stoke his hand.

“I love you.” I hear myself blurt out.

Holy fuck! What the hell made me say that now?

***

Brian

It’s such a total fucking non sequitur that at first I can hardly take in what he’s said. When I do, I have no fucking idea how to react. My gut turns over when I work it out, when I realize he’s finally said those words. His timing is fucking amazing, because I don’t think I’ve ever … not fucking needed to hear them, not that. Just … it was good timing. That’s all. They were good to hear. 

Which is a revelation in itself, because once I would just have slid straight back into asshole mode and told him what a crock I thought “love” was, and given him one of my famous speeches to prove it. Instead, still not quite knowing how to react, how much I want him to see, I play for time by reaching for the coffee pot.

He gives a strangled sort of laugh, and I look at him for the first time since those words spilled out between us and nearly laugh myself at the look on his face.

“I would have thought you’d go straight for the Beam,” he says, trying to lighten things, to get us back on track.

I pour coffee into the two mugs he’s placed ready, and shovel sugar into mine, to keep myself from … whatever; then I shrug. “Not like it’s any fucking surprise, Sunshine,” I tell him, bullshit artist that I am.

He laughs properly then, a light ripple of relief. I think for a moment about how fucking pathetic it is that my lover of over four years (never mind that detour with the fiddler), is afraid to even say those fucking words to me because he thinks I’ll open fire on him with all my masterful sarcasm. 

What a dickhead I am.

How the fuck does he put up with me?

Why does he?

How the hell can he love me?

I turn to him to try to find the answer to those questions, and then as his eyes meet mine and his hands tangle in my shirt, I don’t have to. There aren’t any answers. It’s something that’s just there between us; has been since the first night, I guess; although that - whatever it was - we felt then was only a glimmer of what’s grown between us since.

I still can’t find a way to say those words back to him, but at least I can let him know I don’t hate hearing them from him. At least I can do that.

And the fact that doing that will take my mind off the mess I’ve made of things with my son, and my son’s mother for a while is just a bonus.

I take a sip of coffee and lean forward to give him a coffee flavored kiss, a gentle brush of my tongue against his, then I nod towards the steps. “I had plans for these,” I tell him, picking up the plate of pastries. “But they weren’t plans I could share with Deb, much as I love her.”

I hope he can hear what I’m trying to tell him.

He has to be able to hear it, because that’s probably the closest I’m ever going to get to saying it to him.

And right now, my heart fucking hurts, and everything I think about seems to just make me feel worse. Except this. Except him. And I want him to know … all thing things I can’t find words to tell him. 

But even without the words his eyes light up, and he lunges and takes my mouth in a deep kiss before spinning away with his own coffee cup in hand and heading up the steps, waggling his ass in a way he knows will make sure I follow. With a flood of relief, I know he’s still onto me.

*****

Justin

We get another call from Ted an hour or so later, just after we’d stumbled out of the shower, to say that he’s spoken with Mel, and apparently the comics that Michael handed out last night were from a small batch that the printer had sent on ahead. So Mel has advised Michael that the best thing to do would be to call the printer tomorrow and tell him that there’s been an error and get the rest printed with the extra panel back in place. Bet Mel just loved having to do that.

There will be a cost, Ted says, but he’s made Mel see that as Michael caused the problem, the extra cost should come out of his share of the profits.

I can tell from Ted’s tone that Mel is not happy. Not happy with me, and not happy with Ted either. But I bet she’s somehow found a way to blame it all on Brian.

Which is so totally fucking unfair, because it wasn’t any one of us who created this situation, least of all Brian.

I stammer out some sort of thanks to Ted. I try to let him know that I understand how difficult a situation it must be for him, but he shrugs it off.

“Michael was an asshole,” he says bluntly. “And what he did was illegal. I wouldn’t be any sort of friend if I didn’t point that out to him, and try to get him to put things right before he got himself into real trouble.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” I tell him gratefully. “So does Brian.”

Brian sticks his tongue out and makes a barfing noise. Ted hears it, and laughs. 

“I can tell,” he says. “Tell the Boss I’ll see him tomorrow. Bright and early. There’s a finance meeting at nine.”

I laugh myself at that and hang up. Seems like Ted is quite capable of holding his own with Brian lately. A finance meeting first thing Monday morning! That was so not Brian’s idea.

I fill Brian in on what Ted has said and then we just potter around for a while. I feel restless, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. Brian on the other hand seems unusually listless, draped along the couch, languidly flicking through a magazine.

Finally, I’ve had enough. “We need to get out of here,” I tell him. “Go have dinner somewhere and then head to Babylon, or the Baths, or … something.”

He shrugs. “It’s a little early for dinner, Sunshine. Even for you.”

He lies there a moment longer, then he stands up and heads up to the bedroom, opening the closet, and starting to pull out clothes.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he says.

I perk up at that. Babylon and the Baths weren’t really what I wanted, but they were the best I could come up with to break Brian out of his lethargy, and get rid of my own restlessness.

He pulls on old jeans and a soft woolen jumper, things that cling and subtly caress his body, but not at all the sort of stuff he’d wear to go clubbing in, so I pull on cargo pants and a hoodie. His sigh over my clothing choice echoes all round the loft.

“Get over it,” I tell him, “They’re comfortable.”

We head downstairs, and to my surprise, he ignores the car and heads down the street. I jog a little to catch up and realize that he’s making for my studio; my studio - something inside me buzzes happily at those words.

“Brian, what …?” I gasp, trying to keep up with him.

“I feel like lying around. You’re looking for something to do. Seems like there’s a perfect way for those two things to go together,” he tells me.

Suddenly, all the irritated restless twitchy energy that’s been building inside me ever since last night seems to convert to something much more vibrant and dynamic, and I can’t wait to start work. I’m ahead of him when we hit the stairs, and by the time he comes through the door, I already have a new canvas up on the easel. 

Brian settles himself on the ratty old couch that I scrounged from Mom’s garage and waits for my instructions. I ask him to turn the couch a little, away from the light; then, my mind already brimming with color and texture, I start sketching. I’ve moved right away from life works lately, more and more into semi-abstracts, where undefined shapes and forms express the inner-ness of things, not their outer appearance. In this work, though, the two things seem to come together; the beauty and graceful elegance of the figure on the couch is central to the painting, but it’s not all that I work to capture. I want the world to see his pain, his vulnerability, his essential goodness. But at the same time, I don’t want them to see Brian. I want them to see themselves, to see others, to see those things in all of us. In each of us that potential for suffering, for vulnerability, for goodness lies somewhere - however hidden under layers of imperviousness or success or even violence and evil. I believe that. I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t look at the world the way I do, and try to capture it on paper or canvas if I didn’t believe that.

By the time I realize how hard I have to squint to see what I’m doing in the fading light, I’ve caught the basics of the piece. The central figure, his face turned towards the light, but hidden from the viewer, lies stretched across the foreground, softly outlined in charcoal. A wash of blue covers most of the canvas, while the background shadows are limned in the other colors I want to use - fiery green, deep crimson, and a brooding gun metal gray. The blue conveys the overall sadness of the piece, while the crimson and gray hint at the underlying pain and anger. But contrasting with all of them is the clear vitality of the green, with its inevitable associations with growth and renewal and an irrepressible life force. And around the green, the tone of the blue changes from a sad faded tone to a clearer, more vibrant sapphire - the color of healing.

I sigh, knowing I’ve gone as far as I’m ready to go tonight - even if I could conjure up sufficient light. At the sound, Brian stretches lazily, and getting up, turns on the light.

I blink a little and smile across at him, more grateful than I could ever express to him for giving me this - for sharing this afternoon with me in this way.

*****

Brian

Silly twat! God knows what he thought he was achieving, working on until he probably couldn’t see his brush, let alone his model. When I turn on the light he blinks at me like a little blond owl.

I’m overcome with a rush of pure affection for him, which is a sure sign that I need a fucking drink. Probably many drinks. But first, if I know Justin, I need to feed him.

I stand well out of the way as he cleans his brushes, and don’t even attempt to steal a peek at the painting. When he’s ready he’ll let me know.

“You can look if you like,” his voice echoes from the stairs as he clumps down to wash his hands in the little bathroom down on the landing.

I move in front of the painting to see what he’s done.

I don’t know what I expected, but it’s not this. It’s not this sense of recognition, this feeling that all the emotions that have been flooding through me all day are splashed there on display. I’m glad that at least he’s hidden my face. 

Though, to be fucking honest, if you didn’t know the artist, you wouldn’t know who his model had been; and probably not even then. Not even my closest friends would see me the way he sees me - not as an object of lust, or even desire, not as some up himself fucking asshole who doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. Not even as some pathetic broken loser, only held together by his arrogance and his sex appeal. Only Justin would see this me - this man who feels pain, and anger and even despair - but who can feel other things too. This man who may not be free with his love, or even his goodwill, but who still holds those things inside him somewhere, where they surge around looking for a way out, however little ability he feels to express them.

I stand silent, staring into these daubs that are like some fucking mirror, showing me my own soul, till he comes up beside me. It gives me some deep sense of comfort, a sense of fucking satisfaction that thanks to him, to his insight and his talent, at least something good came out of this shit of a day.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask what I think. But I can feel his hunger for my response sucking at the air between us.

“Not bad,” I tell him, pulling him to me, so I can rest my chin against the top of his head as we look at his work together. “Not bad at all …” 

My hands caress his arms and I try to use them to convey how fucking amazing I think he is. “My own little genius. Now …”

I’m about to revisit his earlier plans for the evening when his stomach rumbles. He tenses, knowing I’m going to laugh at him, so instead I kiss his neck.

“Sounds like you need to be fed,” I tell him.

He sighs, and nods. I don’t have to be a fucking genius to figure out that however much he might be looking forward to dinner, the rest of his earlier suggestions don’t actually hold much appeal for him. 

For me, however, there’s a lot to be said for going out and having my dick sucked by some anonymous mouth before I bring it home and put it where it belongs. This little session aside, it’s been a total fucker of a day. But I don’t want him to be pissed with me, and I don’t want him to feel … abandoned; as if his feelings don’t count.

I try to soften the blow. “Justin, I own the place. I need to be seen there occasionally.”

He turns to me and smiles, clearly determined not to let my continuing desire for meaningless sexual encounters with strangers get to him.

“I know. But I don’t think I’ll come. We can have dinner and then I might just relax at home. Or maybe go over to Mom’s.”

Fuck it! He was just there this morning.

“She’s going out tonight with Tucker, and Mol’s staying over at Dad’s. I could have a bath.”

There’s real longing in his voice now. It’s the one thing he misses at the loft. He even told me in some ways he liked Ian’s place better because at least it had a bath. Fucker!

But he’s put an image in my mind now and it won’t go away. Justin … naked … wet … relaxed …

Fuck! I should go to the club tonight. I’ve hardly been there this week. Then I look at him. He’s got this ‘what the fuck?’ look in his eyes, puzzled by my sudden stillness, and his nose is scrunched up in the way he does when he’s confused. My gaze moves down to his mouth and I think about how fucking talented he is with that. And once more the picture of him naked … wet …

Fuck it! The club will get along just fine without me. That’s what I pay a manager for.

For a moment, I actually toy with the idea of heading on over to his Mommy’s, then I realize what a fucking cock flattener that would be. No, that won’t work. And the solution is oh so very obvious.

Pittsburgh may not be the Big Apple, but it does have some half way decent hotels, and one of them at least will have a room with a nice big tub - maybe even a jacuzzi.

“Get a move on,” I tell him. “We have to get home and changed for dinner.”

“What?” he says. “I thought we could just go to that Chinese place on …”

“Oh, no, Sunshine,” I tell him. “If we’re going out on a dinner date, we’re going to do the thing in style.”

He turns and stares at me, and then his eyes light up. “A date?” he says, trying to play it cool. 

I grin at him.

“Aren’t you a bit ahead of yourself?” he grins back. “You haven’t asked me yet. Maybe I have other plans.”

So do I, Sunshine, I say to myself. So do I.

But time for those after dinner.

“If you’re going to turn me down every time I ask you out for dinner, I might just stop asking,” I tell him. Which makes him look puzzled for a moment. Then he remembers. That was back in the Stockwell era. Fuck! Is it really that long ago since I took him out? Well, I guess I didn’t even take him then, as it turned out.

“Come on,” I tell him. “I promise I’ll even eat some of your dessert.”

He laughs out loud at that and shoves me with his shoulder as we spill down the stairs. We walk along the street with our arms brushing together and he slides against me as I drape an arm around his shoulders. He spends the entire trip home trying to get me to tell him where I plan to take him for dinner, but I just shake my head. I tell him I have to get something from the car, and send him upstairs to start the shower - he reeks of paint and thinners, and now it’s all over me as well.

Once he’s safely out the way, I make a couple of calls. First to the Renaissance. Not my style, but I know they have spa tubs in some of their suites. After I making sure their booking desk knows I expect one, and that I also expect a decent fucking bottle of champagne on ice waiting for us, I call the Opus restaurant downstairs. I’ve heard a couple of good things about it from visiting clients - especially about the dessert menu. So that makes it an ideal choice.

That done, I bound up the stairs. As I do, my epiphany of this morning comes back fresh into my mind, and I realize that somehow it’s still okay. All evidence to the contrary, just by being me, and doing what I most want to do - fucking him into the mattress after a long slow suck and fuck fest in a hot tub - I can make Justin happy. 

Just the thought of how he’s going to look when, after dinner, I take him upstairs and he sees that fucking spa makes my pants tighten. He is not going to believe it.

Or maybe he will. He’s always had more faith in me than I do in myself.

That’s what makes this work. He gives me a reason to believe in me.

And hopefully things like today show him that I believe in him too. Hopefully he fucking understands that spending all afternoon on that lumpy couch shows that I believe in him as an artist; that telling him about my conversation with Lindsay shows that I believe in him as my friend; and that doing this tonight shows that I believe in him as my partner. That I trust him - trust him not to take advantage of me, trust him to know what it says about how important he is to me, and most of all, that I trust him not to make me look stupid by spilling his guts tomorrow about how romantic it all fucking was to all of our so-called friends.

*****

Justin

Brian joins me in the shower but he’s not in the mood to fool around. I guess that’s okay. But it does make me realize that I don’t have a clue what his plans are after dinner. I guess he wants to leave his options open. And that’s really okay with me.

He’s given me so much in the last couple of days - so much support, so much reassurance, so much love - that I’m not going to be at all rattled if he heads off to Babylon for a few hours. I’m past the stage of worrying that people like Michael and the munchers will read that as me “settling”; as if what Brian and I have is somehow less than what they have because we’re not monogamous. To me, what we have is so much more, because we know that a minor sexual encounter with some stranger doesn’t threaten it. Mel and Linds have split up - twice, for crissakes - over something that for Brian and I wouldn’t even have been a blip. As far as I can see, that makes our relationship stronger than theirs, whatever they might think, because it can’t be fucking derailed by something so trivial.

Anyway, tonight I’m looking forward to a long soak in a real bathtub. It’s the one thing I’d change about the loft. Well, that and having a room for Gus, but I don’t want to think about that right now.

At least now I understand why Brian’s been so weird about spending time with Gus lately. In one way it’s infuriating that he couldn’t just tell me weeks ago what was going on in his head. In another, it’s pure Brian that he didn’t.

This is why people think he’s a totally self-centered shit who doesn’t care about anything but getting his dick attended to - because he never lets anyone see all the stuff he worries about. He just keeps it all locked up inside. I guess part of that is about maintaining his image, and part of it is just him being a control freak; but mainly I think it’s simply that he’s afraid. He never lets people know what he cares about because if he did they could use it against him. That’s totally true about the situation with Gus.

If Mel and Linds had any idea of how much spending time with Gus really means to him, they could take him for everything he’s got.

Anyway, he’s told me about it now, which means he trusts me, at least; which is major, and I’m not going to let him down. I’m not going to be like Michael and harp on about it. I’m going to let it rest, and just make sure that he knows that whatever he needs to do I’m going to support him - whether what he needs is to try to get some sort of visitation rights, or to head off to Babylon to forget about it all for a while.

Once he’s toweled off, though and starts getting dressed, the clothes he pulls on are totally not what he would wear to Babylon. I don’t mean that he doesn’t look hot, he always looks hot. But they’re not his King Stud/Super Slut look, just a nice pair of tailored black pants and the deep burgundy shirt that for some reason he dismisses as completely “last year”, but which he knows I love him wearing.

O-kay. Now I finally get what he’s telling me. And although I truly wouldn’t have minded him ditching me after dinner for Babylon or the Baths, the fact that he’s clearly letting me know he isn’t planning to makes me a very happy gai boi. Looks like someone is going to get very lucky tonight.


	12. Reverberations #12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this S5 rewrite, although I've been making changes to what happened at various points in canon, for the most part I've kept to the canon timeline. But I've made one major change, and it's coming up now. In canon the art show happened before the Anti-prop 14 fundraiser. I've changed that order. To me, it gives both a better dramatic flow, and also adds weight to why an unknown young artist might reap more attention than might be otherwise expected.

Brian

I’m glad that I brought the fucking camera. If anyone had been there to see, snapping that photo might have made me look like a total loser, but catching that expression on his face would have been almost worth it. 

He was all “you didn’t!” when instead of making for the car after dinner, I steered him past the reception desk to the elevators. He was excited and a bit giggly while we rode up, ready to make out in front of anyone who was lucky enough to share the ride with us, and wanting to know when I’d checked in (during a toilet break, while I demanded ‘now, faster’ from the reception staff and not in a good way). 

But when he walked into the room and saw the huge fucking spa bath he just lit up like … there aren’t words. There’s not a cliché on the fucking planet that could convey how amazing he looks when I finally get it right. 

For a moment, I thought there was going to be a full on attack of allergies. Then he seemed to switch gear, as if the idea of what the two of us could get up to in that spa suddenly got through, and sweet, sentimental little Sunshine was just swept away by him, Justin. Justin at his hot, horny, uninhibited best.

See, this is what our “family” doesn’t get, because they don’t ever see him like this. They don’t see him flushed and panting and demanding - demanding to be satisfied, demanding to be fucked. 

I suspect that no one else has seen this Justin. I suspect that this Justin only gets released when his fucking emotions and his libido collide and they’re both so intense that they pretty much drive him out of his mind. Out of his nice, safe WASP control zone, anyway, so that he lets go of all his inhibitions and gives himself totally over to what he’s feeling. And I have to figure that that pretty much only happens with me. It never happened all the times I’ve seen him with anyone else, anyway; and I just can’t believe that the fiddler ever drove him to the edge like that; turned him into some kind of feral wild man who bites and claws, grunts and squeals; past control, past being able to form thoughts, let alone words. A total wild man.

I guess it’s all too fucking ironic that for me it’s exactly the opposite. What happens when my emotions line up with my sex drive and force me to lose all my inhibitions is … tenderness; so that time itself seems to slow down to give me the chance to caress every part of him, to ache over the taste of his skin on my tongue, and lose myself in the scent of his hair - what he’d call “making love”. And that sure as fuck only happens with him. 

Tonight there’ll be time for all of that, and everything in between; enough to satisfy us both.

He’s on the phone right now, calling down for more food, like we didn’t just eat a couple of hours ago. He says he’s burned it all off and needs more fuel. I think he just wants to enjoy being able to order room service. 

But who gives a fuck? He’s happy. He fucking vibrates with it. He loved doing it in the hot tub, sitting over the jet to let it play on his balls and his ass, then opening up for me with only the water as lubricant. Rocking on me, slow and easy, hard and fast, and other variations on a theme. All the while with the hot water buoying us both up and keeping us slick and slippery, so it was hard to keep hold of each other, except where his ass was clamped round my cock and my tongue explored his back teeth.

He seemed to like it on the bed, too, where he clawed scratch marks all down my fucking back while my dick tried to find his back teeth from the inside, pushing so far up into him even I got worried. Not him though. He just dug his nails into my ass, and demanded more.

No matter what our little family might think little Sunshine wants or needs, the simple truth is that Justin is a man born to fuck. He likes down and dirty sex as much as I do; and when it’s fueled by all the things that are between us - all the passion and tenderness, the pain and the fear and the anger and the joy and the need …then it’s fucking explosive. Or so tender it makes me ache inside. Or both - sometimes at the same time. It’s everything I’ve avoided my whole life and now I can’t imagine life without it; don’t want to imagine it. Don’t have to – I’ve come close to losing it too many times. So now I just enjoy it while I’ve got it, make the most of every moment of it. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had; ever will. And I’m damned sure it’s the same for him.

He’s off the phone now, and he comes to join me where I’m lounging on the bed. He’s got that well-fucked look that makes his skin glow and his eyes are … they’re amazing. So fucking bright they could light up most of Pennsylvania.

He brushes his mouth across mine, then settles beside me.

“You have the best fucking ideas,” he says.

I grin at him.

I do. Sometimes I really do.

*****

Justin

He’s unbelievable. For all the times he can be a total dick, there are just as many that he comes through big time. 

Most times, really.

Most times I really need him to, anyway.

But tonight was a stroke of genius, even for him.

We’ve never fucked in a hot tub before, and it was … well, hot. Really hot. And not just the water temperature.

But what made it beyond hot, what is making this whole evening sizzle for me, is that he made this whole thing happen just for me. He could have just stayed home with me and fucked me into the mattress. That would have been easy, and more than enough to reassure me that I’m important, that my feelings are important; it would have been enough to make me forget all the shit from last night, and the messages they’ve all been leaving today.. 

But Brian did so much more than that. He listened to me. Really listened – both to what I said, and to all the things I didn’t say, could never say, about how tired I am of the way his so-called friends keep fucking with our lives. He listened to me babbling about how much I was looking forward to a long hot bath, like that was some sort of magic cure that was going to make all the shit go away and instead of shrugging it off, and relying on his ability to fuck me senseless being enough (which it probably would have been), he took what I’d been saying and made it a million times better by bringing me here. Here where I could have a great meal (the Kahlua flan was fantastic); here where I could enjoy not just a bath, but a spa tub, one that I could share with him. And, if that wasn’t enough, he brought me to somewhere where for once it’s just us.

No fucking phone calls. No one to burst in through the door anytime they fucking feel like it. Just us. 

Like it was this afternoon. 

At that thought, I turn my head to meet his eyes. He’s lying on his side, facing me, propped up on his elbow. He’s got his tongue in his cheek, one eyebrow raised, and his eyes have a slightly mocking glint.

Just looking at him, I can feel my cock stirring again, something I would have bet wasn’t going to happen any time soon, but that’s the Brian effect.

“Peaceful here,” I say.

The mocking look becomes more obvious, but now there’s a hint of mischief in there as well. There’s something in this he finds amusing, and it’s a joke he thinks I’ll share.

“How many people do you think have been to the loft?” I ask. I’m so onto him.

The look of amused mischief deepens further. He shrugs a little.

“Who the fuck cares?”

I roll up onto my elbow and reach my other hand to touch his chest.

“You’re a fucking genius,” I tell him. He is.

I rub my foot against his, and let my fingers wander over his nipples. He collapses back onto the bed, pulling me on top of him.

“We deserve a fucking break,” he growls. Our eyes meet for a moment in another shared joke - a fucking break, that’s what it’s turning out to be, all right. Then our mouths meet and our tongues tangle together, and then … there’s a rap at the door.

I jump like a mile, and Brian raises that eyebrow again.

“It’s only the fucking food, Sunshine,” he says, pointing out the obvious.

My heart settles back in place and I give him a wobbly grin while I get up and pull on at least enough clothes to be able to answer the door.

He condescends to at least pull on his pants, even if he doesn’t bother doing them up completely.

The room service waiter gives us both the sort of look I’m used to getting when I’m with Brian. He’s pretty hot. If Brian wants to, I wouldn’t mind. But Brian just signs and waves for him to leave, while I work out what I want to eat now, and what I ordered to share with him later, one way or another.

But all the time I’m fighting back the shakes, and I realize how fucking sure I was that they’d somehow tracked us down.

It was just for a moment, but for that moment I was really scared. I need tonight. Just tonight. Away from them, all of them. Tomorrow, I’ll be ready to deal again. But tonight I need …

I need this.

I need us.

I need it to be just us.

I need that more than I could have fucking guessed. But somehow he knew. Knew it even before I did; so he brought us here, where he could make sure I got what I needed.

I guess he’s on to me too.

*****

Brian

He nearly jumps out of his fucking skin when the knock comes at the door, and that’s when it really hits home how much he must have been dreading the hordes descending on us. I guess I was too. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that I wanted to get us both out of everyone’s reach for a while - both this afternoon, and tonight; because I’m tired of us having to deal with all their shit in our own fucking living room.

Linds expects me to “call ahead” if I want to drop by to see Gus. Mel used to want me to book an appointment at least a week in advance. Mikey’s indicated to everyone, including his fucking mother, that we should all wait for an invitation to visit him in Dicklessfagville, not just drop in when we feel like it. But all of them somehow figure it’s okay to just charge over to the loft every time they want to ream me out about something. And if I don’t answer the fucking door, they use the keys and codes I gave them for emergencies to let themselves in anyway. God forbid I should ever be entitled to any privacy. 

But now it’s not just my privacy they’re invading. Justin has a right to feel safe from being harangued in his own fucking home.

Tomorrow, I’ll get the locks and the codes changed. For tonight, we’re safe here.

I sign for the food, and hang the “Do Not Disturb” notice before I shut and lock the door. No one knows we’re here, and we left our cells at home. (I have the emergency beeper I got for Gus. If there’s a real emergency with him, Linds can reach me. She knows better now than to use it for anything else. She did that once - paged me for some fucking shit that was only urgent in what passes sometimes for a brain in that blonde skull of hers. She’ll never do it again.) Anyway, there won’t be any phone calls here to either sympathize, or tell us what a pair of selfish shits we are, or just poke their noses into our fucking business as usual.

So - hatches battened down, and all fucking access secured, I turn back to him. He seems to have gotten over his little scare all right and he’s feeding his face with something that should have him on the treadmill for a week if there was any fucking justice in the world. I guess he figures he should make the most of that freaky metabolism of his that lets him eat anything without gaining an ounce, because he takes every opportunity to test out if it’s still working.

I take a look at what else he’s ordered and can feel irritation building in direct correlation with the lust. He seems to have a whole fucking heap of cream or custard filled goodies and I can guess how he’s going to tempt me into eating them.

What about ‘no carbs after seven’ does he not understand?

He knows fucking well I’ll give in, too, the little shit.

He looks at me now, his eyes going between my groin and a custard filled cannoli. Fuck! I’m doomed. I guess all I can do is try to take him down with me.

*****

Justin

Last night was so amazing that when I finally checked my messages this morning, and there was one from Lindsay asking me to come and see her at the gallery, I was just excited at the thought of the opening Friday night.

She’d asked me to come before eleven, but it’s almost that when I get there. What can I say? Brian didn’t make his 9 am finance meeting, either.

She seems annoyed when I walk in and looks pointedly at her watch. She also seems somehow a little nervous, but at first I put that down to what she’s got to say.

Apparently, there’s been some sort of mix up and she doesn’t think they’ll have enough space to hang any of my stuff after all. 

I have to fight to swallow down my disappointment, and not take it personally, so at first I don’t realize that she’s veered off on a tangent, babbling on about how stressed she is over the whole thing. I’m thinking how fucking typical it is that having just snatched away my first show in a real gallery, she’s trying to get me to feel sorry for her, when she starts on about how Brian’s making her even more stressed by how he’s being about Gus.

She pauses to let that sink in, and then says, “Justin, I’d never ask you to try to influence Brian, but …”

Hello? May be blond, but I’m a long way from being stupid.

What the fuck is this? I’m about to ask her point blank whether she’s trying to blackmail me into helping her gut Brian, and whether, if I do, she’ll magically find room in the show for me, when the door opens and her boss, Sydney, walks in.

He’s all smiles as soon as he sees me, which even then strikes me as weird. Lindsay, however, looks like she’s swallowed a fucking cow.

“Justin!” he says, reaching out both hands to shake mine. “I’m so glad Lindsay managed to reach you. This is an excellent opportunity for you. And for us, of course. We’re very confident that adding one or two more of your pieces to the show will prove very popular with our clientele.”

I look at Lindsay who’s gone the weirdest shade of red ever. She looks scared and furious all at the same time. Well, she’s not the only one who’s furious, and she should be fucking scared.

I look her full in the eyes as I respond to Sydney, “Lindsay hasn’t actually told me about wanting more pieces.”

I pause, and let the silence fall heavy for a moment before I turn to Sydney and go on enthusiastically, “I just got here. But it sounds exciting.”

I’m not above flattering the customer - something I learned from Brian. Sydney buys it, because he beams and rubs his hands together.

“Excellent, excellent! When one of our other artists fell through, you were the first person I thought of.”

I doubt that, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not only keeping my pieces in the show, he wants more. My mind races. I’ll never get the new painting finished in time, but I’ve got a couple of others that I’m happy with. One huge one that I could only paint because having the studio mean that for the first time I actually had the space to do something like that; and having that freedom somehow brought things pouring out of me that I hadn’t hoped to be able to tap into. I cross my fingers and hope that he’s interested in that one, because I’m really proud of it, and I think it makes a strong statement about where my art is these days. Lindsay had originally said they wouldn’t have room to hang it, but now, maybe …

Of course, it’s a major bonus that he’s also given me something I can hold over Lindsay’s head.

“Let’s have a cup of coffee, and talk about it,” Sydney says. “Lindsay, would you mind?”

He takes me off to this office, and leaves Lindsay to fetch the coffees.

“Cream, no sugar,” I tell her over my shoulder as I walk off with her boss. Let her fucking sweat for a while over what we’re talking about.

Sydney is enthusiastic when I describe the two pieces and I arrange for him to come over to the studio to see them this afternoon. 

But all the time I’m talking to him, I’m trying to work out whether I should tell Brian what Lindsay tried to do.

I’ve made it a rule to try never to interfere between Brian and his friends, not even all the times Mikey was such a prick to me. But this is different. This isn’t really about me. This is about how far Lindsay is willing to go to manipulate Brian’s relationship with his son. Once I realize that, I know I have no choice. No matter how much it hurts him (and it will), I have to fucking tell him.

So while I smile and make nice to Sydney, inside I’m raging. Lindsay sends someone else in with the coffee. Just as well. I would have a hard time not throwing it in her face. Not like it would have mattered that much. After all, she’s got another one.

Bitch!

*****

Brian

How fucking ironic is it that after years of believing Mikey and Linds were my friends, the ones I could count on, they're the ones who are doing everything they can to fuck me over. While Ted and Emmett, whom I once would have dismissed as just hangers on - especially Ted - they're the ones who are really coming through for me. And for Justin.

I wasn't all that surprised when he told me what Lindsay had done. I mean, I would have been shocked that she'd go so far as to put his career at risk, but the fact is she would have had to put his stuff in the show no matter what he did about her little bit of blackmail, so she wasn't actually doing that. And of course she didn't think about how badly she might have hurt him, because fucked if it seems to matter to anyone how either of us actually feels about anything.

That's what pissed me off the most - not how manipulative she was being - I've always known that about her, even admired it in some ways; but that she's taken to extending the whole "Brian doesn't have actually feelings, so it doesn't matter how you treat him" attitude on to Justin. That's a fucking load of bullshit!

The problem is that I don't know how to tackle it.

Neither does he.

We've both somehow just got through the last couple of days with minimal contact with anyone. Well, except for Ted and Emmett, who've both … been there for us. (And saying that is enough to make me want to fucking puke, but I don't know how else to put it.)

Ted's taken on the whole thing about sorting out the reprinting of the comic and has nagged and hassled as only an accountant could to get it done by tomorrow night.

And Emmett has been spending time with Justin, giving him someone he can vent to, and just generally making sure that he knows he's still got some friends he can fucking count on. Fuck! The Party Queen even came up and gave me a hug when we dropped in at Woody’s last night. Like I needed some sort of fucking encouragement or some shit.

Justin, at least, is still on a high, despite all the drama, thanks to good ol' Sydney. Seems Syd "adored" Justin's new pieces - especially the fucking huge one that was the first thing he painted in his damned studio. Loved it. He even asked Justin why he hadn't offered it to Lindsay originally. Seems he got all prune-faced when Justin said he had, but Ms Peterson had said they wouldn't have space to hang it.

Maybe she'll get her ass reamed by her boss for that little piece of bullshit. One can only hope.

I'd like to do a little of that myself, but it's back to the usual fucking shit of having to deal with her about Gus. I know Justin thinks I should do something about that, stake some sort of claim, but …

It’s not like I think I'm ever going to be in the running for Father of the Year. Or that I'm like Mikey and want joint custody. I just need to be sure that I can see Gus sometimes; that he'll know he has a father; that he …

I don't want Gus to ever doubt that he's got a father who loves him. I want him to grow up knowing that I might not be around every day, but that I will always, always, fucking be there if he needs me.

I know the sort of shit Mel says about me; and I know Linds has never made any real effort to stop her saying all that in front of Gus. I need to see him sometimes so he fucking knows that it's not all true. I may be an asshole. I may be the most selfish prick on the planet. But I love him. He needs to know that.

I don't want my son to grow up wondering why his father can't love him.

*****

Justin

Things have been weird the last couple of days. I feel like we’ve been living in a little bubble. They’ve all stopped calling. I guess they finally got it that we’re not going to answer the messages. I’ve had coffee with Em a couple of times. This morning Daph came too and Em was telling us about the spin that Michael’s been putting on what happened on Saturday night. Apparently I’ve been really stressed over the comic launch and just threw a major DQ hissy fit. Michael was only trying to keep me calm and he asked Brian to help, so Brian decided he should get me out of there.

Talk about revisionist history!

Daph was in hysterics and the three of us got into making up Michael-ized versions of all sorts of stuff, from Julius Caesar’s assassination to the overthrow of Sauron from LOTR – all of them with the theme of “they were just trying to calm him down”. Okay, it was beyond silly. But it made me feel much better. 

God bless Em!

Oh, and then he gave Brian a huge hug in the middle of Woody’s last night. I thought Brian would have conniptions. But instead he got this look like he would have had the biggest smile on his face if he dared let go of his image for half a minute; and he actually hugged Em back. Well, he put his arms around him for like a micro second, and didn’t pull away anyhow. Em knew he’d been hugged, anyway, because afterwards he looked a little bit weepy, but he also seemed to be standing tall at the same time; like Brian had somehow rewarded him, and made him feel proud to be our friend. It’s such a weird thing that Brian, the man everyone berates for what a self centered prick he is, can really make people feel so good about themselves. 

Ted too.

Ted’s been amazing. 

He got all the stuff with the printers sorted; they’re even committed to delivering the revised copies on time tomorrow morning. Apparently they didn’t have a sign off sheet for the changes Michael made, so Ted read them the riot act, and made them believe it was at least partly their fault. I was in the office when he was calling them, and by the time he’d finished with them they were probably ready to agree to anything just to get him off the phone.

More importantly than that, though, he’s been there for Brian. Not saying anything much, I don’t think (he probably wouldn’t dare actually say anything), but letting Brian know that he’s got his support in little ways – like telling off their new office boy when he brought Brian cappuccino instead of latte, and saying that he should make sure that he looked after his boss better than that because they all rely on Brian for their pay checks. It doesn’t sound much, but I was there when it happened, and Ted wasn’t being sarcastic or anything, he was letting Brian know how much he’s appreciated and admired, and doing it in a way that Brian could accept.

Brian would never say anything, either, of course. But I know that it means a lot to him that he’s got Ted’s support. When Ted arrived at Woody’s Brian went straight to the bar and bought him a drink. It was only sparkling water (Ted’s still not drinking alcohol), but when he gave it to Ted, Brian mumbled something like ‘it should be single malt’, so Ted got the message. Ted sort of blushed, and looked all flustered when he took it, so he obviously got what Brian was telling him about how grateful he is, even if Brian can’t actually say anything like those words.

So, in some ways the past two days have been okay. Much better than I would have expected. But in others …

I told Brian about Lindsay. I had to. He got this look … angry and helpless all at the same time, and I know it’s because he’s frustrated, maybe even ashamed, because he feels like Lindsay has so much power over him. It's not good, this situation with Gus. Somehow we've got to find a way to …

Well, Brian has to. It's not really up to me. I can only support him. Like he has me over the last few days.

He’s been amazing at that. He hasn’t caved at all to Michael, which he always would have before. I don’t mean he would have said that what Michael did was okay, but he would have let it slide, and found some sort of excuse to call him. And that, to me, would have felt like some sort of betrayal, even though that’s not how Brian would have meant it. He would have just needed things to be okay with Michael so much that he just had to forget what Mikey had done. Not this time though. This time I know Brian is putting me first, and I can’t believe the difference it’s made in how I feel about the whole thing. He even said he'd put off his trip to Chicago to meet with Leo Brown on Thursday so he could come with me to the fundraiser tomorrow night.

But I made it clear that I don't need or even want him to do that. 

He's promised to be back for the gallery opening on Friday night and that's the main thing. That's what's really important to me.

The fundraiser hardly matters, even if we are launching the Rage marriage issue. I was serious when I told Michael there wouldn't be any more Rage. I won't work with him again, and, after the stunt he pulled with this issue, I don’t trust him any more. I have no idea what he’d do with the story lines, and I don’t trust him not to use the comic, use the characters with our faces, to push his own little agendas. So if he tries to go on with a new artist I'll sue him for everything he's got. Brian or no Brian.

I'll put in an appearance at the fundraiser, mainly because I'm not going to let all of them think that I care enough about them to let them keep me away. But I don't need Brian to hold my hand. There’ll be other people there anyway. Daph can’t make it because she’s got an exam the next day, but Em will be there, and Mom (even though she’ll probably have Tucker with her). So I’ll be fine. 

In fact, Brian being there would only make things worse, because I'd have to spend the whole night trying to stop him spouting his whole anti-marriage thing and upsetting everyone. And he would. He couldn't resist. Confronted with all the sanctimonious shits from the GLC, like Tanis and her friends, he'd just lose it; and the worst thing is that I'd wind up siding with him, because I'm so tired of them all. I mean, of course I think we should have the right to get married if we want to. That's only justice. And I'm prepared to fight for that right.

But I also think we should have the right not to want to get married without anyone carrying on as if not being married is some kind of major indicator that you're a loser with no right to consider yourself a mature adult in a "mature" relationship.

Fuck that!

People who think that way are no better than the homophobes. You can't demand equality and advocate tolerance of your lifestyle but then sneer at other people who don't happen to share your values; or act as if your values and beliefs somehow make you superior to people who don’t see things the same way. That’s exactly what the homophobes do, and it’s fucked.

The truth is most of the "married" couples at the GLC haven't been through anything like the challenges that Brian and I have survived. Between his parents abusing him, and the damage that did to him; my father disowning me, and the dint that put in my self worth; the bashing, and the physical and emotional after effects of that; the cancer, and the physical and emotional after effects of that; Ethan, and the whole LA thing … we've survived more than most of them put together, and we're still here. Our relationship has its shaky moments, but we somehow keep holding on, and we're getting stronger. Most of their “mature” relationships would have crumbled under half the load we carry. 

But, because we won't stand up and swear that we'll only ever fuck each other, they say we don't have a "real" relationship. 

Well, fuck them!

I haven't told Brian, but they wouldn't even put me on the organizing committee for the fundraiser. They didn't actually give me a reason why, but Ben told Michael, who told Emmett, who told me … it's because my relationship with Brian is so "equivocal" and not a good example of what they're fighting for. Because of course, only "perfect" gay couples are affected by the marriage rights issue; like the issue isn’t about trying to overcome institutionalized homophobia, it's about playing happy families in front of the rest of the world.

What a load!

*****

Brian

I wish to fuck I didn’t have to go to Chicago tonight. If I could have I’d have put the meeting with Brown Athletics back to the afternoon, then I could have caught a morning flight tomorrow. But the meeting’s due to start at 9am and it’s likely to last most of the day. Leo was in town a week or so ago and I presented an outline for a new campaign for them; he liked it and now we need to go through it in detail to line up all the different strands – TV, radio spots, print media, some online stuff, and, of course, the selection of the new personality, now that he’s been scared off Drew. Part of me wants to tell him what a homophobic prick he was over that, but the truth of it is Drew’s outing himself might hurt sales. It’s wrong, but it’s also a commercial reality.

It’s not like Leo’s selling designer suits – it’s sports wear, and the redneck factor is huge in that market.

So … I need to take a flight tonight. But I have a very bad feeling about it. I don’t like the thought of leaving Justin without back up. I know that his mommy will be there, but she doesn’t have a clue about all the shit that’s been going on. Don’t get me wrong, I know from personal experience that Ma Taylor would have no hesitation in going for the jugular if she thought anyone was giving her little boy bad time, but she doesn’t know how someone as “nice” as Lindsay can operate, and everyone is always fooled by Michael’s fucking puppy dog eyes into thinking he’s harmless. He could always turn those eyes onto people and make them forget any shit he’d got up to so they’d turn all the blame onto me. Always. 

At least it the thing’s going to be at Babylon now. Justin will be on home turf, and Ted has instructions to make sure that all the staff – especially the security people – look out for him. Anyone who gives him grief is going to find him – or her – self out on their ass.

We both had a good fucking laugh last night over that. Over the fact that having given us all that shit, they had to send Mikey in, cap in hand, to beg me to let them use my unhallowed fucking club – the place they all sneer at – to have their little shindig, because the “nice” places don’t want to be associated with a fag event.

What the fuck have I been telling them forever? 

They talk such a load of crap about “community” whenever it fucking suits them, but they don’t have a clue what it really means. 

They spend all their time pretending to be just like the straights, trying so desperately to fit in to what the fucking straight world says their lives and their relationships should be like, and then they’re surprised when it doesn’t fucking work, and they’re forced to face the fact that they’re fags and dykes. 

Dickheads! They should be fucking proud of what they are, not trying to hide it. How the fuck can they expect the straights to respect them, when they don’t respect themselves? When they’re so fucking apologetic about being wanting to suck cock (or pussy), when they sneer at any gay man (or dyke) who’s actually honest about wanting to get fucking laid, then what they’re doing is betraying their damned “community”, stabbing it right in the fucking back.

Well, tonight they’ll be in the realm of the cocksuckers, and the perverts who actually like to have fucking sex occasionally, so maybe they’ll learn a thing or two. Who knows, they might even have a good time. More than a few of them seemed to enjoy the Carnivale, they might even enjoy this.

At least it should keep them off Justin’s back. Fuck! His boyfriend is handing over the club to them gratis for the night; the least they can do is show their gratitude by not giving Sunshine any more shit.

So I guess I can concentrate on being brilliant for Leo tomorrow, and stop worrying about anyone trying to hurt Sunshine tonight. I don’t have to feel like I’m reliving a bad time by heading off to Chicago after Leo once again, instead of thinking of Justin. This time, he’s okay with it, and he’ll have people around him to look out for him.

This time, I can get in the limo and head off to the airport with a clear conscience.


	13. Reverberations #13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after the fund-raiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my intro to Reverb #13. It's something of a rant. You don't have to read it. The chapter will stand on its own. Or at least, if it doesn't, it's not because of anything in here.
> 
> I just wanted to put this on the table so that some of my feelings about one of the scenes in the chapter (or at least, its canon original) are clear.
> 
> If there was one scene in S5 that convinced me that the writers had totally lost track of their two main characters, had completely lost any sense of who they were, or where their heads were at, it was the scene in Justin’s studio the morning after the bombing.
> 
> Not Brian’s proposal - in the scheme of things for me that was a small matter, and I could actually think of reasons why he might do that. 
> 
> No, I’m talking about this piece of dialogue:
> 
>  
> 
> _Brian: “I thought if anyone would come through this unruffled it would be you.”_
> 
> _Justin: “When I was bashed I found out that the best way to survive, to go on, is to make something. A painting, a napkin holder, it doesn’t matter. Just so you could prove to yourself and to them that they didn’t get you.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Unfuckingbelievable!
> 
> I don’t know which of the two I found more completely out of whack. I mean, my reading of Brian is that his natural tendency to over-protectiveness (however well disguised, we all know it’s there) and his general control freak nature, are pretty much never going to allow him to be this relaxed about what happened, and, specifically, about Justin’s being involved. (This is, after all, the same man, who just a few hours ago, could hardly speak to tell Justin how scared he’d been of losing him.) I just don’t buy that for a moment.
> 
> But apart from that, there’s the tiny little fact that Brian, far from having reason to believe that Justin is the one who would come through it "unruffled", has every reason to believe the complete opposite. Brian was the one who’d witnessed first hand for weeks, if not months, Justin’s struggle to regain himself after the bashing. He’d had Jenn ask him to step in because she was so freaked out over Justin's mood swings and rages, he'd seen Justin too afraid to be touched, he’d seen him needing help learn to walk down the street again without flinching, he’d watched Justin lose it completely over not being able to paint or draw, he’d even had to stand by while Justin employed Brian’s own pain management techniques of booze, drugs and sex when he looked like losing his place at PIFA. And just a year ago, as a direct result of the bashing, he’d been worried sick because Justin was roaming the streets in the Pink Posse, searching out physical confrontations with a gun stashed in his backpack. There is no way Brian would assume that someone once again trying to kill him because he was gay would leave Justin “unruffled”.
> 
> The stuff about Justin’s anger and despair at not being able to draw brings us, of course, to the absurdity of Justin’s response, because after the bashing Justin couldn’t create anything. Just when was he supposed to have had this post-bashing revelation that creating something helped him survive? He was in hospital and rehab for weeks and couldn’t pick up a paper clip, let alone create anything. When he came out he could barely hold a pencil, or use a knife. He couldn’t even paint letters on a placard for the Pride parade, and his frustration over his inability to create was a major contributor to his mental problems after the bashing, not a cure for them. Even doing the Rage comic didn’t really help deal with his post bashing trauma. We know that, because at one stage in S4 we saw him dash off drawing after angry drawing and find no relief in them for his rage and frustration. Which was what drove him out onto the streets with Cody.
> 
> To have him turn around now and claim that being able to create was what “saved” him, helped him survive after the bashing is so absurdly ridiculous that you’d almost believe the lines were written and put to air by someone who’d never even seen the earlier seasons. To accept it, one would have to completely disregard most of S2 and a good part of S4 as well, since the whole Pink Posse thing was also predicated on Justin’s inability to move past what Hobbs had done to him.
> 
> If any shred of respect for the writing in S5 remained after the shambles of the first part of the season, it shriveled up and died during that little piece of nonsense. It was to me arguably the most absurdly OOC piece of writing I’ve ever seen in an ongoing series. 
> 
> It drove me nuts when I first saw it and that single scene was one of the main catalysts which called Reverberations into being. I am so glad to have the chance to finally deal with it.

Brian

It’s starting to get light outside so I guess it’s morning. I try to straighten and stretch my legs without disturbing the woman next to me whose son was … 

He’s still in surgery; and like the rest of us, she’s stuck here in this fucking hellhole I’d hoped I’d seen the last of, waiting for news of him just like we wait for Mikey. She fell asleep about ten minutes ago leaning against my shoulder, but even I, asshole that I am, can’t begrudge her a few minutes escape from this craziness. 

Justin and I both showered and changed before we came back to the hospital, but we still smell of smoke and fire and hate.

Fuck!

Damn them all to Hell!

I reach out, I have to, to touch him, and he’s solid and warm and alive under my hand. He turns his head toward me. His eyes are red rimmed with smoke and lack of sleep, and they are so fucking beautiful.

I lean my forehead against his.

“I meant it,” I whisper.

His smile, even in that pale, tired, red-eyed face, lights up the fucking waiting room.

“I know,” he mouths. The smile widens. “Me too,” he says.

I just rest there a moment, taking a deep breath of him. Then I straighten, and he turns away; although the warmth of his shoulder against mine keeps my fucking heart beating.

Across from us, Ben sits. He looks gutted. The strain of waiting till Mikey gets out of surgery and we fucking hear something other than “too soon” and “we’ll know more later” is beginning to put cracks in even his vaunted calm. For a moment I flash back to the two occasions I’ve seen that calm shattered; once was the gym incident during his ‘roid period, the other is a much more pleasant memory of him flushed and panting, moaning and mewling while my dick plowed his ass.

Then Justin shifts slightly beside me, and those images are banished, my whole attention going back to him.

I want to get him out of here. I didn’t want him to come. I want him home, safe, not here in this place that brings back memories of …

But he insisted. And, if I’m honest, I’m not sure I could have fucking left him, anyway. 

I’m worried about Michael, of course I am. 

But the thought that I could have lost Justin last night simmers all the time beneath my fears for Mikey; it twists my gut, makes my head pound like a motherfucker and tells me I shouldn’t fucking expect to sleep soundly again any time soon. 

His hand, the one that he had to learn to use all over again after some other fucking bastard tried to destroy him, to take him away from me, flutters a little, then comes to rest on my thigh, and I swear it’s the only thing that keeps me from coming apart. That and the scent of him, warm and sweet and whole beside me.

*****

Justin

I can feel Brian beside me, feel the angst building in him as we sit and wait. He’s not good at this, not good at feeling helpless.

When he touches me, I turn to look at him and the desperate weariness in his face makes me want to kill whoever did this with my bare hands. Then his eyes soften. He leans his forehead against mine and whispers, “I meant it” and my heart does this ridiculous flip, like some silly heroine in a lame romance novel. 

I feel kind of dumb that it means so much to me that he finally said it. I mean, it was such a cliché, right? He thinks I’ve been hurt again, or worse, and in the relief of finding me he spouts off that he loves me. It’s like some pathetic soap opera.

But Brian is totally not a cliché. If he said it, it’s because he means it, and he meant to say it. I mean, obviously the bombing triggered it, but with Brian, the reasons behind what he does are never the obvious ones. I don’t know what made him say it then. Fuck! He probably doesn’t really know himself. But he said it. After all this time he finally said it. Earlier, he’d come looking for me in the rubble and smoke and I knew how scared he’d been. He had to leave then, to go look after Deb and take her to the hospital and that was fine. But he came back; he left Mikey, left Deb to come looking for me again. Then he told me he loved me. Told me I was the one he’d been thinking of, the one he’d been terrified of losing. Told me all the things I’d stopped waiting for him to say, all the things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need to hear. But when he said them, I knew how wrong I’d been about that, because it mattered. It mattered that he said them. It turned my personal world around in ways no damned bomb ever could.

And the fact that right now, when we’re both tired and cranky and anxious and the adrenalin’s long ago seeped away, he’s made a point of reminding me of what he said, letting me know that it wasn’t just the fear and adrenalin speaking ... that ... that’s almost better than when he said it the first time.

We only look at each other for a moment, and then I have to look away. I feel almost ashamed to be so happy while we don’t even know if Michael is going to make it. I mean, shit! He hasn’t exactly been my favorite person lately, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. And I hate to see Deb looking so ... old, and bewildered and sad. It’s awful.

The police were here earlier, taking statements. They asked us to go to the station later and make formal ones, but they wanted to get the basic details. 

They asked Brian a lot of questions. Apparently they made a big deal out of the fact that he wasn’t there. He said he felt like he was a suspect, like he’d blown up his own place to get the insurance or something. 

I felt sick when they told us it was a fucking bomb. I guess I was hoping it had been some sort of gas leak or something. But Carl was here and he told Brian it was a bomb. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What kind of freak would do something like this? 

Brian wanted to go down to the club later to check out the damage, but Carl told him that it’s closed off as a crime scene, and even if it wasn’t, the safety people wouldn’t let him in.

I’m glad. I don’t want him there. I don’t want either of us to have to go near the place again. Not for a while, anyway. 

I’m tired, but I don’t want to go home, don’t want to have to try to sleep. I ... I’m afraid. I feel like all the fucking nightmares that I dealt with for months after the bashing, and thought I’d finally put behind me are just waiting for me to close my eyes, to let my guard down, before they pounce again.

It’s fucking ridiculous! I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt at all. There’s no reason for me to feel so ...

I can feel the shakes start, but I reach out and put my hand on Brian’s leg, and somehow that grounds me. He’s here. He’s fine. I’m fine.

We’re gonna be okay.

It’s all gonna be okay.

*****

Brian

By the time I make it into Kinnetic I’m fucking exhausted. But, aside from the fact that I have to talk to Leo Brown and reschedule, I need to check things out. I tried to find out if anyone from the staff was hurt last night at the hospital, but all they kept telling me was that the police were compiling a list of names and they needed to contact relatives first. Fuckers! The assholes just don’t get it. I bet there were a whole bunch of dear ol’ Maws and Paws who slammed the door in the faces of police officers who arrived to tell them Little Johnny had been blown up in some gay club. They probably haven’t spoken to poor fucking Johnny since he fell out of the closet.

Cyn relieves that one of my worries at least. Only one staff member was hurt, and he’s just got a broken leg; which in the scheme of things isn’t such a big deal. I tell her to send fruit and flowers, and I’ll go down there myself later. I don’t know why I feel like I have to visit some loser who let himself get trampled on, for crissakes, but … Anyhow, for now at least, that’s all fine.

Cynthia’s also spoken to Leo already, and explained. Apparently he’d heard about the bombing and was shocked to find out it was my place. She said he insisted I take all the time I need before I get back to him. When I call, he’s very sympathetic, tells me it can wait, all that shit. But then he asks if I can possibly get there tomorrow. I tell him that’s not an option, that Monday would be the earliest, and we settle on that.

Maybe I can get Justin to come with me. There’s obviously some fucking curse on me when it comes to trips to Chicago. But maybe he needs to hang around for his exhibition. Fucked if I know what the deal is with that. You’d think he’d only need to be there for the opening, but who knows? Linds would. I make a note to call her. I should anyway, check on how she is. Not that I particularly want to talk to her at the moment, but … 

Ted is antsy. He’s already been talking to the insurance, and trying to get estimates for repairs. Like anyone is going to give an estimate before they know how bad the fucking damage is. It’ll be days before we can even get someone in there to check it out. Maybe weeks.

Doesn’t matter.

I sure as hell don’t plan to just rebuild and reopen like not a damned thing has happened.

Ted’s shocked when I tell him I plan to sell, but what the fuck does he expect?

It’s prime real estate. Or it was. I guess this little incident could put a major dint in property prices. 

Shit!

My cell rings. It’s him. 

“Are you okay?” I snap at him. “I fucking told you you should …”

“Brian, I’m fine. I just wanted to know how things are there. Was anyone hurt?”

I sigh, and tell him what little good news I’ve got. 

I wanted him to go home. Or at least to come with me. But no, he insisted on being dropped off at his fucking studio. Like he’s in any state to do any fucking work.

Twat!

“They’re having a vigil tonight,” he says.

I nod. I’d heard already.

“Senator Baxter’s going to be there.”

I can imagine. Showing how much she fucking “cares”. Where was she last night?

“Um … I want to go.”

Of course he does. I nod again, and then, because it’s a fucking phone, I have to force my voice to work so I can say something.

“Yeah,” I grunt.

For some stupid fucking reason my stomach is churning, just thinking of him being in a crowd, being out there in the open, being …

Fuck!

Well, this time they’ll have the chance to take us both out, because I’m going to be right there with him.

“Okay,” he says, sounding happier.

“Meant it,” I hear myself saying, my voice sounding husky.

There’s a pause. Then a little sigh. “Me too,” he says, and I can tell he’s smiling.

“I’ve got some things I have to deal with here. Then I have to go to the police station,” I say. “And then on to the hospital. Unless the cops throw my ass into jail.”

“Why don’t you come and get me when you’re ready, and I’ll go with you,” he offers. “I’ll protect you.”

Now he’s laughing. Little shit.

“Okay,” I tell him.

*****

Justin

Making our statements wasn’t all that bad. Brian says they didn’t give him a hard time. Well, he said they were assholes, but that’s just Brian.

I think he’s surprised by how seriously they seem to be taking it. I guess he thought they’d just go through the motions, but they seem to have a whole huge team on it, all very keen to catch whoever did it. We ran into Carl while we were at the hospital and he said that the mayor has been making it clear that he expects results or heads will roll, so all the top brass is putting pressure on to get a result. I guess maybe Deakins remembers who put him in office in the first place.

Carl said that they don’t think anyone from Babylon was involved. Apparently, there were no new staff on last night, and it was so last minute to use Babylon that it doesn’t seem likely it could have been any of the regular staff. But there were a whole catering crew that the GLC had organized that they were going to use in the original venue and just brought across to Babylon, and Carl said the cops think it might have been one of them. 

I guess it could have been anyone really.

After the police station I get Brian to drop me off at the gallery. Although it seems bizarre, I still have an opening tomorrow night. My first, really. Even if it’s not just my work on show. If it was up to me, I’d bail on the whole thing but when I said that to Brian he just stared at me for what seemed like forever like it was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard.

Then suddenly he nodded. 

“Okay,” he said. He took a breath and nodded again. “Okay. That might be good.”

I could hear in his voice that he really meant it would be safer; that he would like to keep me wrapped up like a fucking cocoon and that he will if I let him.

That’s when I realize what the stare meant. Of course he thought I’d lost my mind. If I let this affect me to that extent, I’m letting the bigots and the bastards who did this win.

So I need to go in to the gallery today and take care of business.

When I get there, I find out that Lindsay isn’t in. Apparently she’s too shaken up. I know she and Mel were pretty good friends with one of the women who died.

People died.

I can feel the shakes ready to start again, but I can’t let them. I practice some of my breathing techniques and call Brian to tell him that I’ll head over to the studio as soon as I’m done here.

He wants to pick me up and drive me there, but that’s crazy. I finally agree to take a cab and he says he’ll organize one for me from the car service the company uses. He’s totally going to drive me crazy if he keeps this up, but I’m too tired to argue.

Sydney insists that everything’s fine, and I should go home and rest and all that shit, so I take off back to my studio. 

I’m up to my eyeballs in the new painting when Brian finally turns up. I’d started sketching it out this morning, but this afternoon, it just took off, and now I have a canvas covered in scrawls of charcoal – black and angry, almost menacing.

He walks in and looks at it for a moment, and I see his brows draw together. I step back and look at what I’ve drawn.

Okay. I guess it is a little dark.

“Justin, what the fuck?” he says.

My name, even. I sigh. “Brian …”

“Why the fuck would you want to draw that shit?”

I almost smile at that. Of course he can’t understand. His way of dealing is to not even think about things that upset him. He does his best to put them out of his mind completely, or at least to shut them down. I have to get them out there, splash them across paper, or screen, or canvas. That’s my way of dealing.

I try to explain to him, but he’s just shrugging it off, practically biting his tongue off to stop himself saying, ‘Just forget about it’.

In desperation, I say, “Do you know what was the worst thing for me after the bashing?”

That stops him in his tracks, just like I knew it would. This is totally a taboo subject with him.

I don’t give him time to blow up at me for even daring to mention it, I just carry on with what I’m trying to say.

“It was that I had no way to express how I was feeling. I couldn’t get it outside, couldn’t put it down on paper. My hand was so fucked and I couldn’t draw or paint or even scribble. 

“I couldn’t talk about it – there weren’t words. And, anyway, it was all too vague ... it wasn’t ... I didn’t have thoughts, nothing clear or coherent, maybe because I didn’t have any real memory of what happened; I just had all these feelings and I couldn’t do anything with them.

“Up till then, my whole life, whatever I’d been feeling I’d been able to put it down on paper – express it, however badly, in my art. But after the bashing ... I didn’t even have that, and that was absolutely the worst thing about it. 

“This time … I can at least do that. I need to do that.”

I look at Brian, and realize that he’s hearing me, but he’s hearing the wrong thing. He’s putting himself back then and blaming himself all over again. I move towards him and putting my hands on his shoulders, I shake him a little.

“No!” I tell him. “Brian, don’t do that.”

His eyes meet mine, deep and full of pain. I touch his face gently. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his. Hobbs. He was the only one to blame.”

Stubborn jackass shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything, but I hear it anyway. He still blames himself for being there.

I resist the urge to smack him and just give him a little shove with my chest. That brings a grin, like I knew it would. He thinks he’s so much physically stronger than me that he gets amused whenever I make any attempt to assert myself with him. Sometimes he forgets that I’m not that little twink anymore, and although I’m not exactly a gym bunny, I do work out now on a regular basis. He’s still taller, heavier, and probably stronger, but I wouldn’t be as much of a push over as he’d like to think. But … he likes feeling all macho sometimes, so I let him have his little moments of amusement. Sometimes, like now, I can use it to my advantage. 

Now that the grin has surfaced, and the guilt trip has been de-railed a little, I smile at him, letting him see that I know what I’m saying, and that I mean it.

“I was the one who invited you to the Prom,” I tell him. “And it … I am so fucking glad you came.”

His mouth twists and he gives me one of those looks I hate, full of bitterness and self-mockery. 

“Even if you can’t fucking remember me even being there,” he says harshly, his hand snaking round the back of my neck in a touch that isn’t harsh at all.

I look into his eyes, knowing that this is the time to tell him the things I’ve never had the chance to say to him about that.

I nod, short and jerky, then I say quickly, before I can think better of it, “You’re right. I don’t remember. Not really. But sometimes … I get snatches, you know?”

He stares at me.

“When we’re at Babylon maybe, and the light flashes in a certain way, or sometimes when we’re in bed … I see your face close to me, and … I get a flash of us dancing, your face is close to mine and you’re smiling right into my eyes and I’m smiling at you and … and I know that you love me. And I am so fucking happy …”

I break off, overwhelmed by a sudden revelation.

I was happy in that moment, deliriously happy. But not because I knew Brian loved me. I … I think I’d always known that. Suspected it, anyhow. No, that wasn’t it. Or not all of it. Not the best part.

“Not just because you loved me,” I tell him, finally figuring it out, finally seeing it, feeling it, knowing it. “But because you were happy that you loved me. You … you wanted it,” I tell him, my voice suddenly choked with tears as I realize exactly what it was that Hobbs had destroyed that night, what he’d robbed me of, what he’d stolen from Brian, from us.

For one brief moment, Brian had let himself believe in love, believe in being happy, believe that he could have that with someone. He’d dropped his guard and just let his feelings show for once in his life.

Then Chris Hobbs came along and beat my brains in, and beat into Brian’s brain the knowledge that his admitting to loving someone can only lead to pain – not just for him, but for the one he loves. 

I wrap my arms around him, overwhelmed with an insight that I am completely unable to put into words.

He holds me, though, tightly against him, and breathes into my hair and somehow I know he’s heard me. Heard all the things I can’t say to him.

Mainly how sorry I am for all the shit I’ve put him through.

Sorry for all the resentment I’ve been carrying around. All this time.

Without me even really knowing it, that resentment has been eating at me ever since I got out of hospital; I’d been hating him a little for not wanting to love me; for making me fight him so hard just to get him to admit that maybe he could deal with the idea that we might be together for more than the next fuck.

And all this time, he’s been living with this horrible, soul-destroying secret. 

Not just with the belief that he was to blame for what happened to me. It’s worse than that. All this time part of him has believed that it was him being in love, admitting it, being happy about it, letting me and all the rest of the world see that happiness, that put the bat in Chris’s hand. 

No wonder he closed off again. No wonder he let me go with Ethan without any kind of a fight. It’s a fucking miracle that he let me back into his life at all, when he’s taught himself, when he’s been taught, to believe that him loving someone, admitting that he loves them, can only fuck them over. Or maybe he believes that it’s okay as long as he doesn’t enjoy it.

I feel a wave of laughter shake me suddenly.

He is so fucked up.

And such an arrogant asshole to believe that all the shit I went through revolved around him.

But he’s my fucked up asshole and I love him.

I feel suddenly like dancing or singing or flying or any other fucking clichéd idea of what happy feels like. 

It’s totally wrong that I should feel like this right now, but it’s such a relief. Being free of that resentment is … it makes me feel like I can do anything, be anything. That we can be anything.

“Marry me,” he says.

*****

Brian

I guess I should have given him some sort of fucking warning, because he looks like he’s swallowed a cow.

He just stands there and gawps at me for about an hour. Then he comes to me and puts his arms around my waist, so I have to let mine slide around him, even though all I really want to do is wrap my hands around his throat and fucking choke an answer out of him.

“Brian, no,” he says, smiling at me all sweet and gentle, like he isn’t kicking me in my one remaining ball. Then he fucking kisses the edge of my mouth, gently, like I’m some fucking fragile little flower. “I love you. You don’t have to …”

He stops and gives me one of those blinding fucking smiles of his.

“I love you,” he says again, his eyes shining at me like he hasn’t just shot me down in flames. “You’re just freaked out by last night. But I’m fine. We’re fine.”

He grins at me then. “We’re better than fine,” he says, squeezing his arms tighter. “I love you.”

I stick my tongue in my cheek, and look down at him, trying to figure out if this is the time to argue with him. But we’re both past exhausted, and all I want to do is take him home and get a couple of hours sleep before this damned vigil.

Meanwhile, he’s shining up at me, so I have to say something. I press my forehead against his.

“Me too,” I tell him.

He beams at me, so he’s fucking heard that right, anyway.

I wrap my arm around his neck and let him know I think it’s time to go home. He squawks and while he’s bustling around cleaning up, I start planning my next move. This discussion isn’t over, Sunshine, not by a long way. I just have to sell you on the idea, that’s all.

That’s okay. Convincing people is what I do, and I’m good at it. I’m fucking brilliant.

I guess for him the marriage thing might seemed to have come from way out in left field. He thinks he’s letting me off the hook; thinks it’s not really what I want. But he’s wrong. Because I do want it. I want a real fucking future with him in it.

And I need him to know that. Suddenly, I know that I have to find a way to make sure he knows that.

The thing is I just refuse to keep fucking things up.

I don’t have a clue why this thing between us works. It shouldn’t. I can think of a billion reasons why it shouldn’t. But it does.

Maybe it’s the absolute need to be together that drives us to find a way to make that happen somehow – even when it shouldn’t work, doesn’t work, can’t work, we somehow make it work.

Not because we want it enough, or because of the effort we put in to somehow making it happen. But because we both need it so much that it not working just isn’t an option.

‘You’re all you need’ I sneered at him once, fucking dickhead that I was. He’s not all he needs; I’m not all I need, But I don’t need him, I need … us; this whatever it is between us, that’s what I need. We both do. That’s the major fucking secret that makes this dysfunctional, completely fucking ridiculous Thing work.

And it scares the living shit out of me that one day he’ll stop needing it, and … I won’t.

I won’t ever be able to stop.

When he stops, it will end, and I’ll go right on needing something I can never have again.

That’s the thought that wakes me sometimes in the middle of the night; it comes to me in my fucking sleep and I jerk awake, cold and shaking, and I lie there for the rest of the night listening to him breathing and reminding myself over and fucking over that the way his body gravitates towards me in his sleep means that it hasn’t happened yet. Telling myself that right now, tonight, he still needs us; and all I can do is make the most of that.

There was a time when all of that would have been enough to make me push him away as hard as I fucking could, send him off to find his destiny (which surely to Christ has to be better than being with me). I would rather have tossed him off a cliff myself rather than just sit around waiting for him to be the one to step away from me. But not any more.

I learned that much at least from the fiasco with the fiddler. It didn’t hurt any less because I pulled the ax down on my own stubborn neck. In fact, it was worse, because all I was left with was ‘what if?’ and ‘if fucking only’.

Well, not any more. No ‘if onlys’. It might not work; we might not last. We probably won’t. But this time if we crash and burn it isn’t going to be because I was too chickenshit to really try.

It’s not going to be like it was after the fiddler. No one is going to be able to point at me and say ‘There goes Brian Kinney. He’s a dickhead. He could have had something fucking wonderful but he was too much of a pussy to go for it.’

I’m not the same asshole who said to him ‘in ways that I won’t’. 

I am going to love him in all the ways that I can.

There are some that I can’t. They’re not in me. It’s not in me to make pretty speeches and buy him fucking flowers and all that shit. But I’m not going to leave him in any fucking doubt that I am loving him in all the ways that I can, and that I plan to go on doing that as long as I have breath.

He might think this is all about last night, but that’s only partly true. I’ve been working up to making some changes for a while. I’ve just been dragging my feet about it; pushing it to the back of my mind with all the other crap I hate thinking about; telling myself that there’s no rush, that things between us are okay, things are fine. All the usual shit to cover up the fact that I’m a fucking coward who’s so afraid of change he’d rather go through life pretending he’s still some hot young stud with his brains in his pants than actually deal with who he really is, who he really wants to be. 

Last night just reminded me that I don’t have forever to do that. And I’m fucked if I’m going to lose him again because he thinks I don’t want him, thinks I don’t love him, thinks I don’t want to have a future with him.

I’m not going to have him drift away because he thinks the future with me is limited to what we’ve had in the past.

There are no fucking limits to what we can have, what we can be.

None.

*****

Justin

By the time we get to the vigil, I feel like my head is going to explode. I can hardly take in everything that’s going on at the moment.

He fucking proposed to me!

I almost feel like I should be dragging him off to the ER or something, because last night must have seriously shaken a screw loose.

At least he didn’t freak out when I said ‘no’. Or storm off somewhere to fuck a few tricks just to prove that he didn’t really mean it anyway. 

Instead, we went back to the loft, and he was almost relaxed and really … loving. It’s hard to explain how amazing it is when he’s like that. No one would believe me anyway. We even managed to get a couple of hours sleep - after he’d given me the most fantastic blow job ever. It must have been just what I needed because I slept like a baby. Better.

Now we’re here, and it’s all surreal. 

I’ve seen things like this on TV, but they don’t capture at all what this is really like.

It’s dark, and a little misty, so each candle has a halo of diffused light around the flame. People are huddled in little groups, looking sad and sort of self-consciously solemn. While there’s a sort of calm, at the same time there’s a sense that under the calm people are really wired; that they’re scared and sad and angry, all at once.

We seem to have been standing here forever, and my feet are starting to hurt, and it’s fucking cold. But I feel ashamed to be thinking of how uncomfortable I am, when we’re here because there are people who died last night and others who might not live through this one. So I stand between Mom and Brian and try not to shuffle about too much.

There are some protesters here, but they’re on the other side of the crowd from us. I’m glad. I don’t want to have to deal with them, and I don’t want Brian to risk getting into it with them either.

We stand and listen while Senator Baxter speaks. The only thing she says that really registers with me is that if Bush truly wants to fight a war on terror he should start in his own backyard with the right wing religious crazies who bomb abortion clinics and think that killing anyone who doesn’t share their warped vision of the world is doing God’s work.

That gets a round of applause, and again, you can sense the underlying anger in this crowd. You can feel the frustration that they … we … can’t do anything about the fact that there are people who don’t think we even have the right to live, let alone to be ourselves, and that those people are sheltered and even encouraged by the government whose duty it is to protect its citizens – us, as much as anyone else.

When she’s finished, Mayor Deakins gets up and promises that in his jurisdiction that isn’t going to be the case. He tells us that the city’s law enforcement officers have been instructed to make bringing the people who set last night’s bomb to justice their top priority.

For whatever that’s worth. Well, at least Stockwell’s not around to turn an official blind eye like he did to so many other crimes against gays.

Drew speaks next.

Then Deb.

But Deb has just started when some asshole from among the protesters shouts something that I don’t catch properly and all hell breaks loose.

Ben, of all people, goes berserk, and by the time Brian manages to drag him out of it, he’s half killed some old guy.

It takes ages for everything to calm down. There are people shouting backwards and forwards; some of them want to get into the fight (I actually see Emmett throw a punch at someone), police and ambulance sirens wail over the shouting, and there’s pretty much general mayhem.

When it all clears, the old guy has been carted off to hospital.

And Ben’s been arrested.


	14. Reverberations #14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That the C/L writers could claim that they bravely decided in the end to sacrifice the BJ relationship (around which the whole damned show was based) to the cause of “reality” is, IMO, the single biggest crock that they managed to come out with. I can’t begin to express my level of disgust with that piece of blatant hypocrisy. There were so many key incidents in those last few episodes that bore no relation at all to “reality” that giving BJ a happy ending would have seemed the most believable event by comparison. Ben’s little ride off into the sunset with Brian after his attack on the protester, and the complete lack of consequences to his actions struck me forcibly as one of them.

Brian

I can feel him eyeing me sideways as I start the car. I brace myself, trying to find the strength to keep from biting his head off.

I’m an asshole. It’s well established; and if there was any doubt, then Deb has just made it very clear. Well fuck her. Fuck all of them.

All I wanted to do was to get out of there. Get Justin out of there. 

I don’t know what the fuck she expects me to do about Ben’s little rampage..

I pulled him off that old bastard as fast as I could get to him. But I’m not a fucking super hero. I couldn’t smuggle him away from under the eyes of the cops and hundreds of witnesses. And I wouldn’t have if I could. What the fuck good would that do?

The best thing Ben can do is get a good lawyer, and plead temporary insanity or some shit. And then put all their assets into Mikey’s name so that when that bigoted old bastard sues, they don’t fucking lose everything. Maybe they can actually take advantage of the fact that the law doesn’t recognize their marriage and make it work for them for once.

I’m not a fucking lawyer. I called Ted and told him to earn his keep by working out what has to be done to get Ben bailed. I even said that if they need cash Ted can draw a check on my personal account.

No matter what Deb or anyone else thinks, that’s all I can do. For Ben at least.

And Ben’s not my main concern anyway.

My main concern is that my partner has his first Opening tomorrow night … no, tonight, now. And the whole fucking universe seems to be determined to make sure he gets absolutely no pleasure out of that fact. 

Well, the universe can go fuck itself.

He’s going home, I’m going to fuck him into a coma and he’s going to sleep for as long as he needs to. Then we’ll get dressed, and we’ll go to the gallery, and he will have a faab-ulous night.

And if anyone thinks they’re interfering with that they can kiss my ass.

***

Justin

I could feel his anger and frustration building as he stood in the park surrounded by the shambles Ben had made of the vigil and got screamed at by Debbie for not “doing something”.

I don’t think I’ve ever come nearer to hauling off and slapping her. What the fuck she expected Brian to do is anybody’s guess. He actually asked her that and all she came out with was some bullshit about “get your ass down there and make them let him out”.

Just how the hell Brian was supposed to do that, who the hell knows? Certainly not Deb – she’s just reacting as always and expecting Brian to fix everything. And when he can’t, he’s a selfish shit.

At least tonight he stood his ground for once. I was so damned proud of him. He called Ted, made arrangements for Ted to contact Mel and do whatever was necessary to get Ben bailed, up to and including coughing up on Brian’s behalf whatever cash was necessary. But he refused to go chasing off down to the police station on any fucking wild goose chase, like he’s the damned hero and nothing can be done to help Ben without him.

Instead, he told Carl and Emmett to look after Deb, and then we left.

But he’s still seething. The air in the car is so thick with his frustration that it’s almost choking me.

Of course, the real problem is that we both know she won’t let this go. She’ll hold it over Brian and punish him for it like she always does when he doesn’t kowtow to whatever it is that she thinks he should do.

It makes me so angry I want to scream back at her and see if I can slap some sense into that thick skull that she passed on to Michael.

I realize that it’s not just Brian’s frustration that’s sucking all the air out of the atmosphere, and I take a deep breath and try some of the relaxation techniques I was taught to use during my panic attacks after the bashing. They help, and I feel the tightness leave my chest.

I reach out and put a hand on Brian’s thigh as he pulls the car into our parking space. He turns to look at me, and all I see in his eyes is concern.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, feeling suddenly exhausted.

I guess shock, trauma, lack of sleep and now Ben creating a whole new drama will do that to you. I’m not even sure I have the energy to climb out of the car; but I have to. I don’t want Brian worrying about me. He’s got more than enough on his plate.

Quite apart from this latest drama with Ben and Deb’s bullshit, he’s still reeling from what happened last night. I mean, his best friend is in hospital; and okay, they haven’t been getting along very well lately, and Michael’s hardly been acting like any sort of friend at all, but he still matters to Brian. If he’d died last night, while things are so bad between them, Brian would have been devastated. And … he really was scared about me. It was there in his face when he came looking for me right after it happened, and still more so later, when he tried to tell me for once how he felt. I wanted to fall into his arms and just hold him forever, he looked so freaked out and vulnerable.

Plus, it almost seems to have slipped everyone’s notice, but it was his business that got blown to smithereens. In fact, it was much more than that, because Babylon was always far more than a business opportunity to Brian. It was his haven, his safe place. Babylon was where Brian always took off to when the outside world got too hard to handle. The place where he could put all of the pain of his past, all of that fear and anger, all of the fears and insecurities that ride him constantly out of his mind for a while.

And last night that haven got blown apart by other people’s fear and anger. And he hasn’t even begun dealing with that yet.

I want to get inside, and get him into bed and let him fuck me into the mattress if he’s got the energy, so he can for a little while longer he can put off thinking about what losing Babylon will mean to him.

***

Brian

We switch off all the phones, and turn on the alarm and finally, finally fall into bed. I guess I was more tired than I thought, because the last thing I remember vaguely is trying to tell Justin to roll over and the next thing I know I’m waking up with his hair in my mouth and his drool on my shoulder.

I feel like I should be pissed off by that, but instead I find myself working my arm loose to wrap it around him and draw him even closer for a moment so I can breathe him in. Something inside me that has felt cracked ever since I heard that damned radio announcement on Wednesday night comes together again in that moment. He’s here. He’s safe. He’s mine. Despite all the dramas, he’s here and we’re together. We get to face whatever drama today brings together. 

I look around trying to work out what time it is. The way the light is spilling in tells me it’s a long way past dawn. 

Fucking amazing.

We’ve slept the night through without sex, without drama, without anyone even trying to beat the door down to get to us. I can’t remember the last time that happened. I’m not sure it ever has.

Right now though I need to get out of bed. I’ve never seen much appeal in golden showers, and I’m damned if I want to ruin yet another duvet.

I brush my lips across his forehead and slide out from under him. He mumbles some kind of protest and then burrows back down into the bed clothes.

I figure while I’m in the bathroom I might as well shower. No point in waiting till he can join me; hopefully he’ll sleep for a while yet. Then I make coffee, and resign myself to checking our messages. Might as well get that over with too.

There aren’t actually very many.

One from Ted telling me they couldn’t get Ben bailed last night; and then another from earlier this morning saying that he was out now, and the criminal lawyer Mel had advised him to see was hopeful that under the circumstances they might be able to keep him from being charged.

Deb, of course. One from last night all weepy because poor Ben was locked up. And another two this morning … one asking where the fuck I was and why wasn’t I at the courthouse with them, and another later telling me that if I was interested Ben was out and I’d better turn up at the hospital some time today.

There was a boring one from Ben, all “thanks” and yadayada. Who gives a fuck? I did what little I did for Deb and for Mikey. The professor isn’t one of my biggest fans, and I’m not one of his. He’s okay. He makes Mikey happy. But he’s too damned sanctimonious and self righteous for my taste. I haven’t forgotten the “biggest whore in Pittsburgh” line even if he has. Not that I give a fuck what he thinks of me. But coming from the guy I fucked every which way including loose at the White Party, it was such a load of hypocritical crap. 

He wasn’t exactly down there for the scenery. He was looking to get laid, just like the rest of us. But now he comes on like he was all but a virgin till he hooked up with Mikey. Fucking bullshit! 

There’s one from Jennifer, asking what time she should get to the gallery tonight. I find myself smiling at that, at least someone’s fucking remembered; but it reminds me that I haven’t found out yet whether Justin will be free to come to Chicago with me on Sunday night.

I clear off all the messages and then call Lindsay. I’m still pissed with her, but, aside from wanting to sound her out about Justin, I need to know that she’s okay.

She’s all subdued and weepy when she answers, and then goes into that sweetly concerned mode, asking how Justin is. I have to bite back the response that if she’d really been concerned about Justin she would have called yesterday. Or even shown up at the vigil last night. It fucking amazes me that she and Mel have this reputation for being so fucking community minded when they’re MIA most of the time when anything’s really going on. 

She tells me then that her and Mel are back together. She tries to put a spin on it that it’s going to be such a great thing for Gus, because it will mean that he has a stable home base. What she’s actually telling me, of course, is to let go of any idea of me playing a major role in my son’s life. He has his two Mommies again now, so Dadda is once more surplus to requirements.

God knows why the fuck they’ve decided to try again. They’ve just about destroyed each other twice now, and the whole idea that their relationship is anything vaguely approaching stable is just fucking laughable. Maybe they got rattled by what happened Wednesday night. Or maybe they just bonded over some imagined threat that I pose to their ownership of my son. Who the fuck knows?

I sound Linds out about whether Justin will be needed at the gallery after tonight and she’s pretty vague. I have the feeling she’s totally lost interest in the fact that he has works on show. Well, maybe she’s just feeling guilty for the shit she tried to pull on him. As well she should.

Anyway, it doesn’t give me much to go on, so I hang up and then I call Sydney. I tell him Justin’s sleeping and that I wanted to check what time he should be at the gallery. Sydney makes all these concerned noises and tells me to let Justin get as much rest as he can; that under the circumstances as long as he gets to the gallery by five, everything will be fine. I ask him about what sort of commitment he expects from Justin over the weekend, and he mumbles something about Saturday, but says that after that there shouldn’t be any need for Justin to be around. I smile, and thank him. Then I get up and pour myself some more coffee.

I check on Justin, but he’s still sleeping soundly. Thank Christ for that anyway. 

That gives me time to work out some sort of strategy.

He hasn’t mentioned my proposal again, so I guess he really does think I didn’t mean it.

How the fuck am I going to convince him I did?. I do. I want this. I want him to know that I’m as committed to this fucking relationship as he is, and it seems like lately marriage is the only barometer of commitment that counts. So marriage it’s going to be. Closely followed I guess by the damned house and the mortgage.

I consider options and toss aside the fucking obvious ones. Sending him a romantic note in a dozen red roses will probably only bring on his allergies – for real for once. Dropping to one knee in the middle of Woody's is only an invitation for someone to spill beer on my head. Putting an announcement over the PA at Baby ….

Fuck!

Babylon.

***

Justin

I wake up feeling slightly hung over the way you do when you sleep too long into the day. I roll over and grab my watch and sit up with a jerk when I see the time.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! 

I should be at the gallery by now helping to … well, something. Sydney will be having conniptions.

I scramble out of bed and stagger down the steps. “Fuck, Brian!” I complain. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

He looks up at me from the couch and by the look in his red rimmed eyes I realize something is seriously wrong. I see the phone near his hand and just about panic. Michael? Ben? What the fuck has happened?

I bite back the temptation to let fire with all those questions, trying to keep my panic from spilling all over him as I silently cross to sit next to him on the couch. He sticks his tongue in his cheek and gives me a pale ghost of a grin. 

“Relax, Sunshine. I’ve spoken to Uncle Sydney and he’s fine. He said to tell you to rest up and make it there by around five and all will be just fine and dandy.”

I allow myself a small sigh of relief and then set about the delicate task of getting this stubborn asshole to tell me what the fuck is bothering him so much that it looks almost like he’s been crying. In pursuit of that, I reach for his hand and curl my fingers around it.

His lips twist a little more, like he knows exactly what I’m up to, but all he says is, “I’ve cleared all the fucking messages from the loft phone and my cell – yours is up to you. I’d be tempted just to delete the lot.”

I nod. O-kay. Could be that there’s just been another outpouring of bullshit about what a selfish asshole he is, but that wouldn’t normally make him look like his best friend’s just died. Okay. Not a good cliché under the circumstances. 

“Heard from the hospital?”

He gives a shrug. “I called. He’s ‘resting comfortably’ whatever the fuck that means when they’ve just dug out your spleen.”

“We could leave a little early. Drop in on the way to the gallery,” I offer.

He nods without saying anything.

I rub my head against his arm and he moves to let it fall around my shoulders. I nestle closer. His fingers tangle idly in strands of my hair.

“So how many messages did Deb leave?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. 

He huffs a dry laugh. “Only three.”

“So are you an asshole for not going down to the jail house and busting Ben loose or an angel for getting Ted to organize the bail?”

He shrugs.

“Silly question, huh?”

“You need to start thinking about what you’re going to wear to dazzle them tonight,” is his only response.

I move away a little, then, knowing that’s the signal that he doesn’t want me to push any further. But as I’m getting up, I make one more try.

“Was there anything from Carl?”

He sighs. And it sounds … wounded. I almost sit down again, but know that’s not the way to get him to respond, so I just keep going and move slowly to the steps.

When he speaks, his voice is hard to recognize, it’s so shaky.

“He says it’ll be next week at least before we can get anyone in to look at the place, start assessing the damage.”

Damn! It’s finally hit him what he’s lost.

I turn and come back to him, standing in front of him and pushing myself between his knees. He spreads them for me and looks up at me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m about to shove my cock in his mouth or drop to my knees to suck his and either is okay with him.

Instead, I run my hand down his face. Words about rebuilding and all those comfortable platitudes tremble on my tongue, but I refuse to let them out. 

That’s bullshit. He can’t rebuild the sense of joy and excitement and everything that Babylon meant to him just by putting up another building. It doesn’t work like that. I should fucking know.

For a long moment we don’t move, then he makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh and a sob and turns his face to nuzzle into my hand. I rub my thumb across his lips, and he opens them to catch it with his tongue, pulling it inside his mouth. He sucks on it for a moment, then his eyes meet mine again, and this time the lost look is replaced with something else, something hot and hungry. I find myself suddenly aware of my nakedness, for all the right reasons. I feel the heat from his look as it wanders over my body, then suddenly I’m falling back down onto the couch and he’s twisting on top of me. 

We wrestle into position somehow and then have to stop long enough for him to retrieve lube and condoms from the stash we keep under the couch cushions. By then I’ve got one leg up along the back of the couch and the other is hooked round his hips. He flips the cap off the lube and squirts some into me, the sound wet and deliciously obscene, then he pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting mine with a question in their depths.

I give him back look for look, then, when he’s still slow to get moving, I buck my hips up against him. He grins then, a lustful, feral twist of his features and then he’s pushing inside, hard, but not too fast. Not at first.

I reach up and grab the back of his neck, dragging his mouth within reach so I can mash my lips against his; no gentle romantic kiss, just a full on assault on his mouth, till he gives way and lets my tongue force its way inside. He sucks it deep and then pulls back to let it slide slowly from between his lips. I arch up against him and his cock hits all the right places as he begins to thrust in earnest. Then his mouth is on mine again, biting and sucking; my lips already feel swollen, bruised, but they’re still seeking more, desperate for the taste of him. When our mouths part, they roam over his neck, his shoulders, any place they can touch, till his lips come within reach again. And all the time he’s rocking into me, my cock trapped between us, rubbed and teased against his belly.

I want this to go on forever. There’s no room to think here. No room for thoughts of bombs or failure. No place for fear, there’s nothing except this, this heat, this overwhelming need … and him.

***

Brian

It doesn’t last long enough. It never does. But while it lasts, it’s … everything else fades, dissolves, until all that’s left is him, and the way it is between us.

I’ve used sex for pain management ever since I blew my load for the first time, but it’s never been the way it is with him. Sometimes, getting blown at Babylon, or fucking some strange ass in the backroom, I almost forget what I’m doing. There are a few seconds white out when I actually come, but the rest of the time can be pure fucking boredom. I don’t know if I ever recognized that before Justin. I guess I must have. I just didn’t really know how different it could be.

With Justin, it’s never boring; it can be so fucking intense … Sometimes now, when I go cruising for strange ass, it’s not for the thrill anymore, it’s to get a break from that intensity.

But sometimes, like today, that intensity is just what I fucking need. 

I let my lips drift across his shoulder one more time, then pull out of him and deal with the condom. 

The Beam is still calling me, but I reject the lure now as I did earlier, because the last thing he needs tonight is me pissed and agro, and the two things usually go together. Besides, there’s still time for us to take a shower together, and that’s a far more attractive prospect than the bottom of a glass.

He writhes into a sitting position and then leans over to kiss me. 

“That was hot,” he grins.

I nod. It was. It definitely was.

He moves closer and lets his head rest against my shoulder for a moment. I turn to look down at him, but he’s staring into the distance. 

“Brian, you don’t think it’s a mistake, do you?”

Okay, he’s lost me. I try to work out what he’s thinking … what’s a mistake? Us? the bombing? Ever letting him outside the fucking door again while those fuckers are on the loose?

“You don’t think it’s too soon do you? That my work …”

Fucking hell! he’s talking about his damned painting.

“Justin!” I snap, so he looks up at me startled. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

I don’t give him time to answer, taking his wide eyed shock at my tone for consent. “Your work is fucking brilliant. It’s time it was on show. The only way it can improve now is for you to start getting feedback from someone other than your professors – who might think they know a lot, but they live in La-La Land. They’ve never had the nerve to move outside their safe little academic theories, and they know stuff all about life in the real world. So put it out there. If there are critics who don’t like it, listen to what they say and make up your own mind if they’re right or not. If they are, do something about it. If they’re not, fuck ‘em.”

I look down into those eyes that are part of what passes for my soul, and suck my lips in for a moment, before I go on, “Now come and fuck me.”

I get up, pulling him with me, and drag him up the steps to the bed. Then I fall onto it, and let him have his way with me.

I don’t often roll over for him. If this doesn’t settle those jitters and convince him that he can do anything, nothing will.


	15. Reverberations #15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art show proceeds and Brian has plans for afterwards.

Justin

It's amazing. I was getting close to a total meltdown, suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that some gallery was actually expecting people to pay money for something I'd painted. I felt like I was totally kidding myself and I was going to wind up feeling like a complete idiot when everyone hated them. Or worse … didn't even think they were interesting enough to hate.

Then Brian rolls over for me, and now, walking into the gallery, I feel nervous, but not out of my depth; definitely not out of place. I feel like I belong here. I might be green, and have a lot to learn, but it's like this is my world, and I'm ready to start carving out my place in it.

In some ways I guess it's kinda pathetic that one fuck can do that for me, can bolster my confidence that much. In another, it's just fucking wonderful that Brian knows me so well; that he knew I was coming unglued and knew just what to do to help me. Maybe that's where the confidence really comes from … knowing that he truly does know me, and love me, and that he really does accept me as his partner.

Knowing that … who wouldn't feel they could do anything?

He dropped me off here and he's gone off to visit Michael.

I hope that goes okay.

I wanted to go with him because I didn't want him to have to deal with Deb and all the shit about Ben by himself. But Brian insisted that I need to focus on the Opening and I didn't want to turn it into a big thing, so I let him drop me here and head off to do what a man's gotta do.

On the way here, he asked what my plans are for Sunday. He wants me to come to Chicago with him. I know he's freaking out a little over leaving me here without him, which is totally ridiculous. I mean he can't get all superstitious about bad things happening every time he goes to Chicago. That's insane. I can't go with him on every trip, and I don't want to encourage crazy over-protective Brian either.

But on the other hand … maybe if we went tomorrow, we could have almost a whole weekend. Like a little mini-break. Check out the clubs. Do some shopping. Brian says all the big designers have outlets along the Golden Mile.

He'd like that.

Plus it would get him out of range of Debbie and all that shit for a couple of days, at least.

Hell, yes! Why not? I'll tell him as soon as he gets his ass back here.

But right now, I'm inside and Sydney, who's talking to a couple of guys armed with all sorts of camera equipment when I walk in, sees me, and comes bustling over.

"Justin, my dear boy, how are you?"

I take a deep breath, fight off the urge to tell him I'm no one's "boy", not even Brian's, and shake his hand.

"Fine, Sydney. I'm just fine, thank you for asking."

"That's wonderful, wonderful. It's good that you're here a little early because there are some people here that I want you to meet."

He leads me over and introduces me to the guys he'd been talking to. They're from the Post Gazette, and at first I assume that they're here just to generally cover the exhibition.

Then the reporter, Chris, asks me about Wednesday night, and that's when I realize that dear old Sydney has set me up. He's using my connection to the bombing to garner publicity for his damned gallery.

I want to walk out.

I want to scream at them that it wasn't a fucking publicity stunt.

I want to find a way to spew the smell of smoke and fire, blood and burned flesh, and the putrid reek of hatred all over them, so they'll feel like I do – that they'll never be completely free of it again.

I don't, of course.

I smile, and answer their questions, and try at least to provide a reality check, reminding Chris, and hopefully his readers, that people died in that smoke and fire for no better reason than someone didn't approve of their bed partners.

Chris nods intently. He's in his late forties, maybe fifties, and I don't get any gay vibe from him. But he says the right things, and he seems sincere enough, I guess.

The camera guy, Marco, has spent some time setting up, and now he gets me to pose for a couple of candid shots while Chris goes on asking questions. Then Chris goes off to talk to Sydney and Marco takes some more posed photos – of just me, and me in front of my paintings.

The other artists who have works on display are arriving now, and I can feel their stares, and their resentment, when they realize that all this fuss is over me, and no one is going to be asking them to pose for any shots.

If they only knew how much I hate doing it … or at least, hate the reason for it, hate the feeling that I'm capitalizing on other people's pain. But I go on posing, even though I'm starting to feel like I'm about to come unglued.

Finally, my cell rings and I excuse myself to answer it.

It's Brian. He's at the police station. Seems they wanted him to make a statement about what happened with Ben. He tells me he's done, and he's on his way.

Says he wanted to make sure that when Deb rings to sound off about him going off with a cop, I didn't get the right idea.

I snort at that.

Then I tell him briefly about the reporters, about the questions Chris asked. He needs a heads up, and I need … I need to get a grip.

He goes very quiet and I can see so vividly that lips pulled between the teeth look he gets when he's being careful of what he says.

I fight not to ask him if he's still coming, how long it will be till he gets here, all that pathetic clingy stuff that I am just not going to say. But I know he can hear something in my silence, too.

"Ten minutes," he promises abruptly, and hangs up.

Ridiculously, that's when I feel the shakes start. I am so fucking grateful that he's on his way.

***

Brian

Fuckers!

That asshole Sydney. I should fucking kill him.

But even as I'm thinking it, I'm also admiring him.

Damned right he's got the press onto it. So he should. He'd have been a fucking idiot not to. 

That's when I realize I'm mainly mad at myself. I should have fucking realized he would. Then I could at least have given Justin a heads up. Prepared him a little.

The thing is, if I can only make him see it, this isn't just good publicity for Sydney; this is a fucking amazing opportunity for little Sunshine. If his damned principles don't get in the way of him taking it.

Well, I have to make sure that doesn't happen. I need to get there. Need to talk to Sydney, need to see what else he's organized, who else he's lined up.

He said something on the phone earlier about tomorrow. Wasn't that about someone he wanted Justin to talk to? I need to check out what else he's got planned.

But first I have to get to Sunshine, make sure he's okay. Make sure this stuff isn't freaking him out. Maybe it's too soon for him to be dealing with all this. If he's really not okay with it, then I have to find a way to get everyone to back off a little without pushing them away completely. 

But first I have to find him, have to see for myself that he's okay.

Frustrated, I weave like a maniac through the Friday night peak hour traffic. I find a parking space easily, thank God, and it's only eight minutes later that I'm brushing aside the minion who opens the door and zeroing in on my target.

He's talking to Sydney, and a guy who, judging by his paunch and his bad clothes, must be the reporter.

On the surface, Sunshine looks like he's well on top of this, schmoozing like a pro, but although he's holding it together, it's obvious to me at least that it's with an effort. Then he sees me, and immediately he looks better. Something in him relaxes and the clouds clear. 

I wait for him to come to me, rather than joining the group. I don't want to call any attention to myself with the reporter. This needs to be all about him. I don't want any distractions based on my own link to the bombing.

The reporter might dig that up, anyway. But I sure as hell don't have to hand it over.

For a moment, as he excuses himself and moves towards me, I wonder about the timing of all this. Especially given the surprise I've just set up for him tomorrow. Maybe this isn't the right time for what I'm trying to do, now, when maybe things are starting to move for him. 

But if not now … when would be?

Either we want to make it happen, want to make us happen … or we don't. Either we're both fucking committed to being together, or we're not.

He's been letting me know, none too fucking subtly, that I need to treat him as my equal; pay him the respect of letting him make his own decisions – not make them for him.

I know I've done that in the past. I've forced decisions, my decisions, on him – either directly, or by removing any option to choose. That's what I did with the fucking fiddler. I lied my ass off and told him it was his decision where he wanted to be when all the time I was taking away all his other options. I even did it with the LA trip. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing pushing him onto that plane. I still think it. But I didn't really give him any chance to choose for himself.

Well, that has to stop. I know that as well as he does.

So this time … I'm not shutting off the options. In fact, I'm about to up the ante. I'm about to let him know how completely fucking serious I am about wanting a future with him in it; let him see what I'm prepared to do to make that happen.

This time, he gets to choose. And all I can do is hope he makes the right choice for himself. I can live with whatever he chooses. As long as it's the right thing for him.

***

Justin

He looks kind of preoccupied when he comes in, but then I get to him and he hooks his hand round the back of my neck in that way he does, and scrunches down just a little so we're eyeball to eyeball, and looks right into my eyes and …

He's here. He's right here with me in this moment, and he knows that I needed him to be here, and he's totally okay with that and he got here so damned fast, and …

He squeezes the back of my neck and pulls me against him just for a moment. But it's enough. He's here, and his support means more than anything right this minute. Makes me feel like I can cope with anything.

Chris comes over, and I go to introduce Brian, but he just gives one of his tongue in cheek smirks, says he wants a drink, and slides away.

Chris shakes my hand, says that he and Marco need to get back, because they'd like to get the piece in the paper tomorrow rather than the features section on Sunday, and then they're gone and I go off to find Brian.

He's snagged a glass of the champagne that's not supposed to be served till after the guests arrive, and the drinks waiter is clearly hoping he'll get something in return, till I come up and glare at him, and he pouts and moves away. With a backwards glance over his shoulder at Brian of course.

"Asshole!" I snap.

Brian laughs.

"Don't get your panties in a knot, he's not nearly hot enough to even tempt me."

I snort. "Just as well."

Brian just grins and pulls me against him, holding me there for a while. Almost like he needs to feel me close as much as I need him. I look up at him.

The thing that makes Brian so hard to read sometimes isn't that that there's no emotions in his face. Sometimes there are just too damned many, especially in his eyes, all these feelings, mixed up together, so it's hard to work them all out. I take a breath and try to cut through some of them.

"I've been thinking about Chicago," I tell him. "I think we should go tomorrow. Sydney wants me to come into the gallery early to meet with someone, but we could get on a plane about lunch time … have most of the weekend there."

He looks … startled for a moment. Then, after he's thought about it for a couple of seconds, he says, "Sure, why not? Good idea. Get us away from all the crap for a couple of days."

Then he frowns. "Unless Sydney needs you here. If he does, then …"

"Brian … "

He huffs a laugh, and brushes his forehead against mine for a moment. "I know you don't like all this shit," he says. "And we can't talk about it now … but later … I'd like you to at least listen to what I think, okay?"

I sigh. Publicity. It's his thing. He knows all about this side of things. I don't. I don't want to. But I'm not stupid. I know art's a business, like any other. That I have to treat it that way if I really want to have a career, not just paint as a hobby while I get supported by my rich boyfriend. So I nod.

"Later," I tell him.

He gives me a funny look at that, and, just as the doors open to let people in, he pulls me against him again to give me a quick kiss.

***

Brian

He handles the Opening like a pro, of course. His WASP background stands him in good stead and he wows everyone he talks to, including the damned NY art critic that Sydney has somehow lured here, and who keeps running his sleazy eyes all over him, like Sunshine's the prize exhibit.

I put up with that for a while, and then I come up and wrap an arm around his shoulders. His work is up for sale, he's not; this asshole better learn that quickly. If it's the art he's interested in, no harm done. If it's not … he can get fucked. Justin doesn't need that kind of fucking attention. His talent speaks for itself.

To the guy's credit, he goes on talking to Justin, and it's all about the work, thank God. Not a mention of the bombing. Maybe being from the Big Apple he doesn't know about it. Why would a New Yorker care about a few people dying in a little backwater like Pittsburgh? 

And maybe Sydney, having got him here, might not make a big deal of it … if he can get the serious art press to take notice of the work purely on its own merit, then that's a double whammy … publicity for the artist with the general public, and a decent review of the art for the art crowd. My respect for him nudges up a little. He seems to be playing this very very smart.

I figure the guy has got the message and little Sunshine's virtue's safe, so I wander off to talk to Jenn. She's here with her toy boy. Justin doesn't like the whole deal, but I give Jenn credit for landing a hot young thing. Why the fuck not? It's what her asshole of a husband did. Why should he get all the fun?

She smiles at me, and moves away from whatisname … Tucker … so that we can talk. I take the envelope she hands me and slide it into my pocket. 

"Brian, are you sure?" she says.

I shrug.

What can I tell her?

No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure it's the right thing for him. In fact, the timing might be totally for shit – like it so often is with us. I'm not sure this is the way to convince him that I meant what I said to him the other night; to prove to him that the fucking marriage proposal wasn't just a result of some sort of PTSD. I'm not even sure that I can swing the finance … although I guess selling what's left of the club to some developer could help with that.

But I am sure about one thing.

I know that I need to do something.

Somehow I need to find a way to show him that he's not going to be forever stuck in the same rut if he stays with me. I need him to know that I might never be someone who buys him roses, and romances him with candlelight fucking dinners, but that at least I'm finally ready to work on planning a future together. I might not ever be anyone's idea of an ideal partner … but I'm not intending to be some pathetic over the hill party boy forever either. 

I need him to see that I fucking know what I've been lucky enough to find with him. That I know what it's worth to have someone … someone I love … someone who loves me. I know what that's worth, and I'm willing to put myself on the line for it in a way that I've been fucking avoiding up until now.

All the bombing did was push me into this a little faster than I'd planned. I'd thought, you know, maybe next year … some bullshit like that. Well, no. Not next year. Now. 

He mightn't want it … right now … or even ever. That's always a possibility.

But he's at least going to know that it's on the table in a way that I've never really made sure that he's known before.

I guess Ma Taylor must read something of that in my face because she looks as if she might fucking start hugging me any minute. But then, arriving just in time like the fucking cavalry, Emmett comes up.

"Isn't it fabulous?" he gushes.

I'm surprised by how fucking glad I am to see him.

***

Justin

I wish I knew what Mom is saying to Brian. They both look very serious. But just as I finally escape the cunty critic and start to head over, Tucker comes up to me.

"Congratulations," he says. "Your work is very impressive."

I shrug. Then I remember that I'd promised myself to try harder to get along with Tucker, and so I smile and thank him.

Then I see Emmett arrive, so that gives me an excuse to thank Tucker again and move over to say "hi!" to Em. He gives a little squeal when he sees me, and then swamps me in a big hug. I wait … one … two … thr …

"Emmett!" Brian growls. Em and I exchange a grin.

Ted comes in then, with Cynthia, and then Daph arrives, and I spend a little time talking to my friends, Brian's hand warm on my back, till Sydney comes to take me off to talk to someone else, and from then on the evening is just one long trail of 'smile, shake hands, smile, thank, smile again and move on'.

I'm exhausted by the time they finally get everyone to leave. 

At one point I'd seen Lindsay talking to Mel, but neither of them went near Brian, I don't think. Lindsay did make a point of coming up and saying in front of Sydney how pleased she was that I'd been able to show more of my work, and how good she thinks it is. Like that is going to make me forget what she tried to do.

Some people I know from PIFA show up, even a couple of my old professors. They all make the right kind of noises, but … it's like … not that they're jealous, exactly, but like they don't feel that me having any sort of success is quite right, because I didn't finish college, didn't go through all the right steps in the right order. Well, too fucking bad. 

Two of my paintings have sold before the end of the night, and apparently Sydney's already fielded an enquiry by some gallery in Philadelphia that's interested in hanging the large painting Lindsay couldn't find room for, so they can all get fucked.

Debbie and Carl turn up right before the end. She gives me a big hug, and explains that she wanted to stay with Michael till visiting hours were over. I guess that makes sense. Ben's not with them. By the look she gives Brian, and the way he tenses up as soon as she walks in, I can tell that there's a reason for that. Probably to do with him having to make a statement about Ben and that guy. 

I haven't had a chance to get Brian to tell me about that yet, but I will later. I need to know how bad that's going to be.

I guess it must be serious if the police are taking statements.

And, of course, Deb is going to find a way to make it all Brian's fault … just like always.

Well, fuck that! Not this time.

I mean, I guess I don’t exactly blame Ben for totally losing it. But it's not like Brian could have done anything to stop him, and once he'd attacked the guy in front of a whole crowd of witnesses, including Carl … then there wasn't anything anyone could do.

But honestly … I'm just too tired to deal with all that tonight. I think Brian must see how exhausted I suddenly feel, because he gets all brusque and overbearing and just tells everyone that we're going home. 

On the way out Sydney reminds me that I've promised to meet with some other reporter for breakfast at nine tomorrow. Maybe Brian will come with me.

***

Brian

He's almost out on his feet by the time we get back to the loft, and although he makes noises like he wants to fuck, I'm damned if I'm having him fall asleep on me halfway through, so I just give him a quick blow job and tuck him into bed.

Then I pull out the envelope that Jenn left with me.

It's heavy, and when I open it, this huge fucking key falls out onto the desk with a clunk so loud that I'm afraid for a moment it will wake him up. I should know better. He sleeps like a log. Only damned thing that wakes him is if I get out of the fucking bed … then he's sitting up and blinking and wanting to know what I'm doing … all of that shit. But tonight he's safely asleep, and I'm out here and I've got time to think about tomorrow.

He's having breakfast with some reporter. I never did get a chance to check with Sydney exactly who, or what the agenda is, but I'll make sure that I talk to Sunshine tomorrow morning and get him on board with what he needs to be focused on. Then I'll send him off to sweet talk the reporter.

That should give me time to check this place out before I get back to pick him up. If it's as spectacular as Jenn says it is, then I'll kidnap him and take him out there and see if the sight of this damned mansion I want to buy for him can get the message through his thick head that I'm fucking serious about the marriage thing. Serious about wanting him to be sure that I want … him. I want him, and I want us, and I want to plan on a life with us together. I want him to feel like he can plan on that happening. And if it takes a fucking wedding ring on his finger to make him feel that way, then … so be it.

I look through the papers she's printed out for me. The price is high, but I think I can swing it. Worse case scenario, I might have to sell the loft. If we're buying a fucking mansion to live in, then I guess I won't be needing the loft anyway.

The place looks amazing. The photos she's got look even better than the one I saw in the magazine at the hospital while I was waiting for Mikey to get back from some tests. It was a major bonus that the ad listed Jenn's agency as the realtors, because it meant I could speed things up a lot. Plus I could persuade her to let me have the keys to the place so we can check it out without some damned agent making a fucking sales pitch in the background 

Besides, if I'm going to propose to him again while we're there, I sure as fuck don't want any witnesses.

Anyway, whatever happens at the house … I'll book us on a flight to Chicago sometime mid afternoon.

That way, if he's said 'no', we can use the weekend away to work out what the fuck we have left. 

If there's anything. 

Well, yes … there'll be something, of course there'll be something. But …

If he says 'no', then I'll know that whatever we have left, it's something temporary. I'll know that no matter what he says, he doesn't really see a long term future with me.

So … all I can do then is make the fucking most of whatever time there is.

And if he says 'yes' … we can use the trip to Chicago to celebrate, and to plan the wedding, before every one else sticks their fucking noses in our business as usual. Maybe even buy the rings.

Either way … at least I'll have tried.

I might wind up crashing and burning, but for once it won't be because I've been too much of a fucking coward to go for it.


	16. Reverberations #16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the art show. Surprises all round, some better than others.

I can't believe it when I'm woken up in the morning by the alarm. It's Saturday, for fuck's sake! 

But then Brian's sitting up saying all too fucking chirpily, "Rise and shine, Sunshine. Places to go, reporters to meet with."

And that's when things start to come painfully into focus. I groan and force my eyes open. He grins at me, running his hands through his hair, which makes the whole bed head thing worse than ever. And it's so damned unfair that it just makes him look even sexier. Before I can jump his bones, he's out of bed and heading for the shower. I follow him, but as I do, the enormity of everything that's going on suddenly hits me and I come close to panic, feeling like my life is getting away from me.

I think about the interview I did with that guy Chris last night, and I get the shakes. Mainly I guess that’s because of the dreams that haunted me all night. Nightmares, really. Stupid things like turning up for this breakfast thing this morning and finding Chris Hobbs waiting for me. And dancing with Brian at Babylon, while falling all around us, instead of glitter, there were showers of body parts and blood, and yet we just kept dancing, like that was totally normal. None of the dreams were bad enough for me to wake up screaming the way I used to do. But they’ve left me feeling exhausted; and not ready to face a real world that includes making a fool of myself in some dumb interview. Part of me wants to rush downstairs and grab a paper to see if last night’s effort is in today and find out the worst; but the other part of me wants to hide, wants to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head and just stay there until all this goes away.

But that's totally stupid and I know that. So I pull myself out of bed to head into the bathroom, and get into the shower. Maybe what I need is just ...

He's standing there, all slippery-wet and beautiful, and when I join him, he gives me one of his slow smiles and then scrunches down to look into my eyes.

For some reason, that nearly brings me undone.

I wrap my arms tightly around him and press myself against him, almost as if I'm trying to crawl inside him. His arms wrap around me, and I feel better. I draw his head down so I can reach his lips and kiss him desperately. He pulls back a little, and peers into my eyes again. I feel mine starting to sting. He raises an eyebrow, and I want to gulp out, "Don't let us lose this. Please, Brian. You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you won't let me lose you."

I don't though. I can't. I can't be such a total pussy. I want to be his partner, his equal, want him to treat me like a man, so I have to be one. I can't find any way to tell him what I'm feeling; how I feel like I'm teetering on the brink of some huge torrent that's going to sweep me away from him, how scared that makes me. I press harder against him, and find myself breathing, "Please."

He gives me a long look, then he smiles.

For a moment I think he's going to say something, then he just pulls his lips in and I know the moment's lost. But he kisses my forehead gently, letting his lips flutter down over my eyes, my cheeks, until they find my mouth in a kiss so tender it nearly breaks my heart.

"What do you want?" he purrs.

"You," I tell him. Which is the truth in so many ways that even I don't know which one I mean right in that moment.

He pulls back and gives me another of those intent looks, and it feels like he's looking right into my soul.

"I'm here," he says seriously. And I know that he's answering all of the truths at once and I can hardly breathe for a moment, because I believe him. He isn't going to go looking for some cliff to throw me off. He's planning on us being together through all this. And that is so fucking amazing that I can't find words to express what it means to me.

All I can do is try to show him. So I grab his head and bite at his lips, sucking his tongue into my mouth.

I feel more than hear a rumble of laughter from his chest, and then he's turning me round and even as he does, I realize that I'm hard and for a while at least everything else fades away while we thrust and slide, and it's all heat and need and it's fucking wonderful.

*****

Brian

We get out of the shower and I decide to let him figure out what to wear while I go down to get a newspaper. Might as well find out now while I'm here to spin things on whatever bullshit they've published. He's on the verge of a major queen out and I can feel it. Maybe that's why, when I sit down to pull on my boots, I hear myself saying, "There's something I want to do before we get on the plane for Chicago."

"Sure," he shrugs, trying to decide between two boring as shit fucking check shirts. Christ! After all this time you'd think at least the basics of fashion sense would have rubbed off on him. I reach past him and pull out an ivory cable knit sweater that makes his eyes glow and his skin take on a soft rich luster like honeyed cream.

"It's a house," I manage to get out before my self censor can kick in.

He lets go of the shirts that he's still clutching and turns to stare at me. Well, that's given him something to think about beside whatever shit had the gerbils scurrying anyway. He looks completely fucking stunned for a moment. Then he gives a sort of gasp and shakes his head.

"Brian," he says, voice all thick with emotion, silly twat. "Brian, I don't need a house."

He shakes his head again, drops of water flicking everywhere.

I pick up my discarded towel and rub it over his head for a moment; then I pull it away so he can see my face when I say, "We need a house. Well... somewhere bigger than this, anyway."

I swallow and force the next words out. "If we are going to ... you know.. do something ... about Gus ..."

Despite myself, my voice completely dies on me then.

Fuck! Why the fuck did I start this now? Why did I start it at all? But ...

He seems to get the message I was trying to give him anyway, because that deer in the headlights look that he's had since he woke up is gone. And he's right back with me. Him. Justin. The one that every other fucker thinks is the soft touch in this whatever the fuck we have.

Partnership.

That's what we have.

And this is the reason.

"Brian," he starts.

Then he stops. And nods.

"Whatever..,," he says. "Whatever it takes," he promises.

Then he takes my face between those amazing fucking hands of his, those magical hands that can create beauty and passion out of nothing, that can even turn me into something resembling a decent human being, and says into my eyes, "We'll make it happen, Brian. It might take a while, but we'll find the way to make sure you have rights to your son."

I try to look away, but he won't let me, so I close my eyes. Then I open them again and let them meet his. I let myself hope. I let myself believe ... in him, if in nothing else.

And I let him see it.

***

Justin

He heads off to get the paper then, and I finish getting dressed and make the coffee. But my mind is ... everywhere.

Up, down, sideways.

At first, I tried to put all the things that Brian has said and done in the last few days down to the bombing.

But it's finally sunk in that ... he means it. He wants it. He wants us. Me. He wants me. Not just here ... sharing his loft, his bed. He wants me to share his life. He's doing everything he can to make me see that.

Even mentioning the thing with Gus is huge. Letting me see, really see, how badly he's hurting, how scared he is ... that's ...

My head is reeling from how much that means.

And the house ...

Brian - the Brian I think I know, the one I've lived with for five years, more or less, on and off, that Brian - he might have gone ahead and bought a house ... if that's what he thought he needed to do at the time.

But he wouldn't have involved me. He just would have gone ahead and done it.

But he - this Brian, this Brian that I suddenly recognize as the Brian I've known he was all along, or could be - this Brian has told me what he's thinking of doing. And why. And he's set it up for us ... us ... to go and look at the place first. Before he buys it. So I can feel that he at least values my opinion.

That's ...

Despite all the traumas and terrors and excitement of the last week ... suddenly I want to dance. And sing. And shout from the rooftops that 'Brian Kinney loves me!'.

And I want to send a letter to all our friends to tell them, 'He's made it! He's fucking done it! We've done it! We're fucking partners. Honest to God fucking partners!'

But really, that last part, that's ... that's something no one else needs to know. As long as I know. And I do now. I really do know how Brian feels about me. And I ...

When he gets back I'm sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging my legs with a silly smile on my face. If he'd got back two minutes earlier he'd have found me standing on it, shouting in a deafening whisper to the empty loft, "Take that, you fuckers! Now back the fuck off and leave us alone!"

***

Brian

When I walk back in clutching what I suspect might turn out to be a time bomb, he's sitting on the fucking counter smirking like that damned twink I found one night outside Babylon. For a moment, it crosses my mind how fucking amazing it was that I happened to walk out at just that moment, and see him standing there looking like ...

He looked like a chicken hawk's wet dream.

But the weird thing is ... I've never been into chicken. Juicy boys don't do it for me. Never have. I like red meat, lean and slightly mean, with enough experience to hopefully make them not a dead fucking loss. Most nights, I wouldn't have given him a second look. Or maybe ... if it had been any other twink ...

How the fuck do I know?

Right now, I have other things to worry about. Like whether seeing himself on the front page of the home town newspaper is going to send him into another fucking tailspin.

He grins at me, all wide eyed enthusiasm now, reminding me even more of that boy who used to claim so loudly that he was onto me. Maybe he was right. Looks like he's onto me well enough today to at least get him past some of his jitters.

"Did you read it yet? What does it say?"

I shake my head. "Thought I'd save it to read with you," I tell him and damned if that doesn't make him light up even brighter.

He reaches out his arms and somehow I walk into the "V" of his spread knees and his arms twine around my neck and then his tongue is rubbing against mine, and for a few moments I just let things flow. Then I pull back, and hand him the paper. I've got the front page folded so he can see it straight away.

He takes it, staring like he can't fucking believe it. "Holy shit!" he says.

He slides down from the counter and turns to open the paper and spread it out. I stand beside him and his hip rubs mine as we read the article.

I'm braced to hate it and to want to kill the fucker who wrote it, but it's not that bad. It gives some info about the bombing, but mainly it concentrates on him. On how fucking surreal it was to go through that nightmare of smoke and dust and blood and pain and then, less than forty eight hours later, be standing all scrubbed up in a pristine gallery, sipping wine and living out an artist's dream. 

There are some of his thoughts about hate and bigotry, and how self defeating they are; how destructive; and how ultimately they can only turn in on themselves.

Sounds enough like his damned idealism to be close enough to actual quotes, without any fucking editorializing of what he's said. 

When he's finished reading, he lets his head drop down for a moment, and then he straightens and turns to me.

"You are not going to let this fuck us up," he says.

Guess he read the last line. The one about how lucky Pittsburgh is that the bomber didn't succeed in wiping out one of its brightest young talents. And how America should feel the same way. How his talent's going to make him sought after across the world.

That one.

Looks like he really is fucking onto me. Because right now I'm wishing I'd never mentioned the fucking house. Wishing that I could just back away from anything that might put limits on what he can do, on what he can be.

I want to turn away from him, just like I've done all the times before, but .., I don't have the strength any more and he pulls me against him.

"You aren't going to let this bullshit fuck us up," he repeats, and butts his head against mine till I allow our foreheads to rest together.

"I fucking need you, Brian," he says, and when I begin to respond, he cuts me off with, "and don't give me any of your bullshit speeches, because you fucking need me, too."

Then he takes a shaky breath, and leans his head into my chest. "Don't, Brian," he says. "Just don't. Okay?"

What the fuck am I supposed to do? I wrap my arms around him and hold him close.

"Okay," I tell him.

He makes a noise that might be a rather soggy snort, and gives my ass a pinch.

“You’d just better not, is all, you twat,” he says, straightening up.

He fixes his game face firmly back into place and takes a quick look at his watch.

“Fuck!” he spits. “I have to go.”

I can feel his jitters starting up again, and I don’t want to send him off to meet with another fucking reporter worrying about whether I’m going to queen out and throw him – or myself – off some fucking Kinney cliff, so I take a deep breath and say evenly, “So, after you’ve finished dazzling another member of the Press, we’ll go look at the house, yes?”

He stands and stares into my eyes for a long moment. I force myself not to look away, to let him see inside me, let him see that I have doubts, that I’m not sure this is the right thing, but that this time I’m leaving the decision about where we go next up to him.

And he does fucking see it, he really is onto me, because suddenly he lights up in a pure Sunshine smile and nods.

“Yes,” he says.

He throws his arms around me in a hug and I have to pry him off, because if I let it go on any longer he really will be late to his fucking interview.

Then I pull him back and kiss him, just to make sure that he really does get it; and then we walk out together to meet whatever else the day is going to fucking bring.

That’s when it occurs to me … Some movies end up with the hero riding off alone into the sunset, sure. But some end with him wrapped in the arms of his one true love, and them facing the future together. 

I’ve always taken it for granted that I belonged in the first kind.

But maybe I was wrong.

*****

Justin

By the time Brian comes to pick me up, I’m almost calm again.

I’m hoping I’m calm enough to fool him, anyway. Or at least to have him think that the only thing I have the jitters over is the general shit about these stupid fucking interviews.

If he finds out before I can get him away from here just what I’ve been talking about to this woman, the kind of questions she asked, then the reporter and I are both going to be fucked and not in a good way.

What I’d really like is some time to think about what was said. Think about what she asked me, and about my reactions. And, even more, to think about the implications of how and where the interview is going to appear.

I feel kind of guilty about that. I let Brian think that this was just some color piece on a rookie artist for some local rag, when I knew it wasn’t. Sydney told me last night who I’d be talking to, what paper she was from.

I could hardly believe it at the time, but this morning Shana - the reporter - explained it all to me in a way that kind of made sense, and made sure that I went on sitting there, while my stomach was churning so much I could hardly force down even a mouthful of the breakfast. It looked good too.

Seems that now that the Democrats have control of the House of Representatives, the political agenda is changing again. And as part of that, there is a move for more and stronger Hate Crimes legislation. The Washington Post are doing a series of articles to highlight the need, looking at some of the things that have been going on all across the country. The bombing was an example of exactly the sort of thing they wanted to focus on anyway. Then, Shana said, they did some background checks on various names that came up among the survivors, and found mine. And Brian’s. Because we’d made the papers before. 

The last time someone tried to kill me.


	17. Reverberations #17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art show is over. Now they both have to deal.

Justin

Fuck! As I step out onto the pavement I can feel the shakes starting up again and right on schedule here he comes in that green fucking phallic symbol of his.

Damn!

I fight to regain my calm, taking deep breaths and concentrating on steadying my breathing and my heart rate. When he pulls up, I jump straight in the car.

He gives me a look but if he was about to ask me how the interview went, he changes his mind when he sees my expression. So much for achieving a poker face. He’s silent at first, just sucking his lips between his teeth, which means he’s working out exactly what he’s going to say.

My insides are still churning and for a moment I feel like maybe I might actually start throwing up. Fuck! This is so not good on a whole bunch of levels. 

Not least of which is that I’m damned if I’m going to let what we’ve achieved between us in the last few days get swept away by either the past, and Brian’s guilt over the bashing (which was no fucking way his fault) or by some dumb idea he might get of what my future could be without him to hold me back. He doesn’t fucking hold me back - he never has. He’s the one who pushes me forwards, the one who has always encouraged - demanded even, that I be everything I can be. “The best homosexual” as he said once.

Damn Emmett! Now I can hear the words of ‘Wind Beneath my Wings’ in my head, so before I burst into song, or into tears, which is also a possibility and that is totally dumb, I say, “Brian … about the other day …”

Just as I do, he says, “We could go straight to the airport if you want.”

What the fuck?

“No fucking way!” I snap.

***

Brian

He snaps out a “no” and his hand, which had been resting on my thigh like it usually does when we’re in the car, suddenly turns into a claw, digging into my leg.

“Ow!” I say carefully. Strongly enough for him to get the message, not so sharply that he’ll freak out and dig in harder.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his hand soothingly over the spot.

I find myself explaining, which I never fucking do. “I just thought we could get the Hell out of here, leave the house till another day.”

He gives me a look at that: one of his patented ‘I’m onto you’ looks.

“You mean, forget about the house,” he challenges.

“I mean,” I say carefully, suddenly conscious that this is a fucking minefield I’ve strayed into, “leave it till we get back from Chicago.”

“Brian,” he starts, then he breaks off with a sigh. For a moment I think he’s going to just let it drop. Which would leave me trying to work out what was going on in his head with that ‘Brian’. And responsible for which road we take. Fuck!

But then he saves me.

“Brian, don’t pull this fucking shit,” he says. “if you’re sorry you ever mentioned the house to me, just tell me. I’ll deal. We’ll fucking deal.” 

I sneak a look at him and he gives me this sad little grin. “We always do,” he says.

I don’t know what to say in response to that. Am I sorry I mentioned it? Am I sorry I let him know that I want to plan a fucking future with him in it? That I want us to plan a future together?

I should be.

I fucking should be.

And if I wasn’t the totally selfish prick everyone says I am, I’d tell him so. Linds and the uber bitch she’s gone back to living with have just spent the last two hours letting me know, in their very different ways, that little Sunshine has had a huge opportunity drop on his doorstep, and that if I care about him at all, I’ll show it by giving him the chance to fly.

Lindsay in particular made a big deal of how much the publicity Justin is getting from this show could help his career - if he gets the chance to take advantage of it.

Looks like I am the completely self-centered shit they all think I am though, because suddenly I hear myself saying.

“Don’t be fucking stupid. No fucking regrets, remember?”

He sighs, but before he can say anything else, I take advantage of a halt in the traffic to put my own hand on the back of his neck.

“I want us to look at houses - this house, other houses, if we don’t like this one. Till we find what we want - what we need. But it doesn’t have to be today. We’ve both got a fucking lot on at the moment. Maybe this isn’t the time to take on any more shit. That’s all.”

He bites his lip for a moment.

“Is it the money?” he asks hesitantly. “I hadn’t thought about it … but the …the bombing,” his voice wobbles then, just a little, and I want to fucking pull the car over and wrap him up in my arms and fuck him senseless so he can’t think about any of that shit again. Not for one fucking instant.

Instead, I squeeze his neck harder, and then have to let go when the traffic starts to move again.

“No,” I tell him. “It’s not the money. Kinnetik’s been doing fine, and the insurance will cover lost earnings from the club as well as the damage. Eventually.”

He nods. I realize that we never talk about this stuff, and we should. He should know how things stand. He’s taking a fucking big chance trying to make a life with me. If nothing else he should know that financially things will be okay.

“Well, then … if you …” 

He breaks off. Then he starts again.

“Brian … I’d really like to go look at the house today. It will make me feel like …”

He stops, and sighs, and I think he’s going to let it go, but brave little fucker that he is, he keeps going, even though he knows what he’s going to say will likely bring out the very worst side of me, the nasty streak that I let loose with him all too often. I’m not physically abusive like my old man, but every time one of those vicious comments comes out of my mouth I know whose son I am.

“I just want to think about something good, okay? Not all the shit for a change. Not all the things that …” his voice wobbles to a halt.

“Okay,” I say quickly, before anything else can escape. It’s so fast that he does a sort of double take.

Then he lights up.

“Really?”

I nod.

This time when his fingers grip my thigh, it’s not pain that I feel.

***

Justin

I’m not stupid. I know that the battle to get Brian to believe that being with him is the thing that I want most, the thing that will make me feel happiest, the best thing for me, is a long way from over. He’s been too fucked up by his parents. And by years of his “friends” telling him what a total loss he is as a human being to believe that easily. If at all.

But for now at least he’s keeping the side of him that’s always looking for some damned cliff to throw me off in check and hanging in there with me. With us. For us.

Which is such a fucking relief that I feel my whole body relax.

Of course, that’s pretty much over when he says, oh so fucking casually, “So how did the interview with the Post go?”

A quick look at him is enough to tell me that he’s not talking about the Post Gazette. He knows. Fuck! I am so not ready for this.

But I can tell by the tone of his voice that this is a trigger for him, and he’s on the edge of saying or doing something really … stupid. And destructive. So I have to deal.

“It was okay,” I say.

Then I go on; trying to pick my words at first, but then I get on a roll and they just tumble out.

“They’re doing a series of articles on the need for Federal Hate Crimes legislation. They … they were looking at doing one on the bombing and … and then they found my name on a data file and read up about the … the bashing.”

I feel him go rigid beside me, and I’m trying to stop the word flow, or to at least find the right ones, the ones that won’t completely shred him, but it seems like some torrent inside me just got let loose and I can’t find the way to shut the fuck up. My voice seems to go on forever.

“They wanted to know what it was like to have people hate me so much because of who I fuck that two of them have tried to kill me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hands are white-knuckling the steering wheel and his face is rigid. But I still can’t stop. In fact, the pain I know is in his eyes, even though they’re fixed on the road and I can’t see them, seems to push the words out even faster and harder.

“So I told them it was just peachy. I told them that as an artist it was a lot of fun to have to relearn how to use my own fucking hand. I told them how amusing it was that when I’d finally gotten back to the point where I could create again, some homophobic prick of a politician came along and torpedoed my college career. 

“And what a complete blast it was that when I found someone who was interested in my work, and wanted to make a film about this character I created, the money men got scared by all the homophobic bullshit pouring out of the White House and pulled the plug. And how absolutely fucking hilarious it is that, after all that, after I picked myself up, and pulled myself together, and managed to move into a new field, and paint something that someone actually thinks is worth hanging in a gallery, another asshole comes along and tries to kill me before I even get to see it on the wall.”

To my relief I finally stop then.

I can feel his anguish, his pain at my pain, squeezing all the air out of the car. 

I know he wants to stop the car and wrap me up in his arms so nothing can ever hurt me again. But he can’t. I don’t want him to.

I tried to lay that on him once. “As long as I have you to protect me,” I told him. I was sort of joking, sort of just pushing his buttons, like I always did back then to see how he’d react, see how far he’d let me go. But I will never do that to him again. Once was more than enough.

I wish to fuck I’d never said those words because they fucking came back and savaged us both.

Despite all the times that he’s looked after me, protected me, even from my own father, the fact that one time someone got past him still haunts him. 

So … right now it’s up to me to protect him for a change. To rescue him from what is going on in his head.

And amazingly, once I think that, the band that was squeezing my chest so tightly I couldn’t breathe, loosens.

Because despite it all - hell, probably even because of some of it, all of those totally shitty things have somehow led me here. Here beside him - on our way to a future together.

And where the fuck else would I want to be?

*****

Brian

I’m trying to stave off my own meltdown at least long enough to deal with his, when suddenly, all the tension just seems to flow out of him.

A moment ago he was wound so fucking tight I was sure the spring was going to snap; now he’s mellow as a pot head on some damned good stuff, for no reason that I can see except that maybe letting all that shit pour out helped somehow. 

“Brian,” he says, “Can we stop somewhere?”

I’m wondering what he’s got in mind. I doubt it’s something as desirable as a quick fuck, so either he needs me to find some fucking way to kiss him and somehow make it all better, or he … he thinks that I … 

Fuck him!

If he thinks I’m so damned pathetic that I need … that I need … I don’t fucking need anything. Just because I fucking want to hold him for a moment; to look into his eyes and see how much fucking damage that damned reporter did … just for a moment, or an hour, I don’t fucking know. Just because I’d like a chance to remind myself that despite all that shit he’s alive; and he’s here. With me. That doesn’t fucking mean that I need anything. I sure as fuck don’t need him to …

“I’m hungry,” the little shit says.

I’m about to make some smart assed comment about how the fuck could he be hungry when he’s just come from a hotel breakfast where they let you gorge yourself direct to a heart attack when he says, “I couldn’t eat much before.”

So I start looking for somewhere we can get some food. I don’t know this area, but before he can expire of starvation a strip mall appears on the horizon, and there’s a Dunkin Donuts and a Starbucks, so I pull up the car. Before he can move, I reach out and let my hand rest for a moment on the back of his neck and he turns his head to give me a lop sided grin. It’s enough. For now.

We get out and he heads off to find some suitably toxic high fat, high carb fuel while I get us both some coffee. 

We meet up back at the car. I’m not thrilled about having this shit in the corvette, but at least it’s not fucking burger and fries, stinking the place out, the smell burrowing into the upholstery like a damned swarm of olfactory termites. It took months before the car stopped reeking after Mikey’s little jaunt with the hustler, even though I bitched the damned morons at the detailers out every week till they got rid of it. And sitting in here, we’ve at least got some fucking privacy and aren’t surrounded by breeders and their screaming brats. 

He inhales a couple of the donuts like he hasn’t eaten in a week, and then takes a breath and says, “I’m okay, you know?”

I stick my tongue in my cheek and give him a look which I guess must say more than I mean it to because he puts his cup into the rest and reaches for mine. I let him take it, and put it safely down and then he’s in my arms and it’s a while before I even wonder where the rest of the fucking donuts are and how much mess they’re making.

***

Justin

Eventually, the desire to stay in Brian’s arms, hold him in mine forever is defeated by the sheer awkwardness of trying to do anything in this stupid assed car. Various implements are poking into me, and not in a good way, and as we sink back into our seats, he somehow cracks his hip on the steering wheel. So it’s a couple of minutes before I can say anything while he curses and swears he’s going to get rid of “this stupid fucking heap of shit mobile”. Like that’s going to happen.

But at least it gives him a chance to spit out some of the pent up anger and frustration that I know he’s been feeling, know he’s been bottling up rather than letting it spill out over me.

So that’s a good thing, and it means I can start this conversation reasonably sure that he won’t spontaneously combust, at least.

I’m not too sure how to say exactly what I want to say, but I promised myself after the whole cancer fiasco that I wasn’t going to hold back anymore; that when there was something I needed to talk about with Brian I was just going to go for it. I mean, my motives about the cancer thing were sort of good, I guess, at least that’s what I told myself. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to bring up the subject with him without him going into a hissy fit, so I didn’t say anything. And then he found out that I knew - thanks to dear Mikey - and took the chance to take all of his fear and anger out on me. Which was worse than if I’d tackled him about it head on. I’m not doing that any more. I’m not going to suffer in silence like some scared little queen. How can I blame Brian for not communicating if I’m too chickenshit to even try to talk about important things with him?

And I can’t think of anything more important than this.

“Brian,” I say … and if I have to stop for just a second and take a deep breath to make sure my voice is steady, well, at least I keep going after that. “About what you said the other day. What you asked me.”

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and raises an eyebrow at me. Like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Fucker! I take another breath.

“The marriage thing,” I clarify.

He doesn’t say anything, but his tongue leaves his cheek and now he’s sucking his lips in. The ‘I’m not reacting at all here till I’ve carefully worked out exactly what you’re getting and even more carefully worked out exactly how I’m going to respond’ look. I am so onto him.

But he hasn’t shrugged it off, or made any snarky comments, so I know he’s still with me, and I know he’s listening to me, and really trying to hear me. That means a hell of a lot right now.

“Brian … I know for a while it … I guess it seemed like … like I thought I needed marriage or some big commitment thing. You know?”

It sounds like a question, but I don’t give him a chance to respond.

“But … I don’t. I mean … I … if I needed anything, it was just to know …”

I hear my voice waver, and I stop for a moment. I can’t trust my voice, but I can’t stop communicating now either, I just can’t. So I put my hand on his leg and squeeze because at least that’s something; and to my relief he doesn’t do any of the things he’d probably normally do.

Option One from the Kinney manual - take Justin’s hand and put it on your crotch and see if you can seduce him into stopping this conversation.

Option Two - reach over and shove your tongue down Justin’s throat and see if you can seduce him into stopping this conversation.

Option Three - get totally snarky and say you don’t have time for Justin to list out all the things he thinks he needs, thus achieving the objective of ending the conversation by getting Justin to a) give up, or b) get into an argument with you about you cutting him off, or c) sulk in silence. Doesn’t matter, you’ve shut him up.

Option Four - repeat the ‘You’re All You Need’ mantra and start the car, thus achieving the objective of ending the conversation by getting Justin to a) give up, or b) get into an argument with you about you cutting him off, or c) sulk in silence. Doesn’t matter, you’ve shut him up.

They’re the usual Brian Kinney defense ploys, but he doesn’t, thank God, use any of them. Instead, he gives a little sigh, and then sort of strokes my hand with the back of his.

I turn my hand over and grasp his fingers. It means so fucking much to me when he doesn’t pull his hand away, but instead turns his to curl his fingers tighter around mine. I want to throw my arms around him and forget all this fucking talking and just show him how I feel about him right now. How I feel about us. But I can’t. I take another deep breath and force myself to go on.

“Brian … the thing this morning … telling me about the house … Telling me right then. Right at that moment …”

I look straight into his eyes and try to let him see how incredibly much that meant to me, as I go on, “The thing is … before … whenever any sort of ‘opportunity’ has come up … you’ve always pushed me to take it. And that’s good. Sort of. But you’ve always done it by pulling back from me.”

He makes a movement then, shrugging, and turning his face away, and I tighten my grip on his hand, tugging a little until he looks back at me. I force myself to say the next part.

“It always made me feel like I could have a career, or I could have you. But not both.”

He frowns at that. He wasn’t expecting it, and it’s probably not fair, but dammit, it’s how I felt.

“I’ve always felt like you don’t think I can have both.”

Maybe that’s closer, and will make what I’m saying clearer to him.

It does, because it makes him give an even stronger shrug.

“It feels like you don’t think … if I have a career, you don’t think … you don’t think I’d want you anymore.”

As that bit, the hardest part to say, finally spills out, his lips tighten. He’s not looking at me anymore, but he’s not saying anything, not trying to stop me, so I can go on now with what I really want to say.

“That’s why … this morning … with that thing in the paper, and knowing the Post thing was going to happen … part of me was just scared. I just wanted to get back into bed and stay there because … I couldn’t face being pushed off another fucking cliff. I don’t … what good is all this going to do me if I … if you …”

I break off then, my voice so unsteady that I can’t trust it.

He sneaks a sideways look, then wraps a hand around my neck and squeezes. “I told you … I said ‘okay’,” he offers.

And for some reason that’s enough. I lean into his shoulder and his hand moves up over my hair, stroking it until I can go on.

“When you saw the paper, I thought you’d go off on that ‘Justin deserves to be free to take his chance’ bullshit again. But you didn’t. You … you told me about the house instead.”

There aren’t words to tell him how that really felt. How it made it seem like everything we’d been through, all the fucking angst and pain meant something. Like I wasn’t a total loser for hanging on all those years, just hoping; because suddenly I found myself where I’d always hoped, always believed, we could get to. I can’t say those things to him, because he had to go through just as much pain and angst - maybe even more. And I don’t want him to think I feel like some sort of martyr, that I had to sacrifice shit just to be with him.

That’s not what I mean.

So I just say, “That meant as much to me as any wedding ceremony.”

He huffs a soft laugh, and I expect him to deflect by making some snide comment about it not counting if he didn’t say ‘I do’ or whatever, but he doesn’t. Instead he gives a small sideways grin at me and sort of nods a little, looking … If I didn’t know better I’d say he looked sort of … shy! Fuck! If I wasn’t already totally hooked on the asshole, that look would have done it.

I find myself pulling his hand to my mouth and kissing his fingers. He turns to me, his tongue going into his cheek again, but his eyes are smiling. He looks fucking happy. Shit! I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen him look like that before.

I feel myself beaming at him as I say, “So … I just want you to know that I don’t need a marriage proposal to like prove anything to me. Okay?”

He sucks his lips in for a moment and then gets this funny look in his eyes that I can’t quite work out. But there’s something else that I want to say, right now, before I lose my nerve.

“But if I thought … if you really …” I take a deep breath and blurt out, “If I thought you might actually want to get married … then … I might even ask you.”

There. I said it. The wrath of Kinney might descend on me, but at least I had the fucking nerve to say it.

***

Brian

I can’t believe he had the balls to say that to me. 

I’m torn between wanting to slap him and being so fucking proud of him that I have trouble not fucking hugging him to death. Twat!

But he’s put himself right out there and I can’t leave him hanging in the wind like this. I give him a look and say, “You sure as fuck know how to ruin a moment.”

His face falls a little, but the little shit tilts his chin up and looks me right in the eye, ready to take me on.

I have to touch him. I hook my hand round the back of his neck again and drag him to me. When my lips brush his, they’re tight for a moment, then they soften and open so my tongue can slide inside. The zing goes straight to my cock, but I only let myself wallow in the taste for a few seconds, then I push the hair out of his face and lock eyes with him. I make sure that he sees that I’m not queening out on him, and then I let him sit back in his seat before either of us damage something important. This fucking car!

He looks like he’s about to start up again, but he’s had his say for this morning - hell! For the next fucking month. I can’t remember ever hearing him talk so fucking much - well, not for a long while anyway. But I guess there were things that he ‘needed’ to say. And maybe some that I might have needed to hear. Maybe. Or some shit like that.

But before he can start off again, I say, “You have absolutely no sense of fucking timing.”

He scrunches up his nose that way he does when he can’t get a handle on what’s going on; the way that makes him look fucking twelve.

I pause for a moment, prolonging the anticipation. Then I tell him, “I was going to wait until we got out to the house and do the whole fucking down on one knee thing.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his fucking head for a moment and I want to laugh my ass off. Or maybe that’s just because I feel so fucking … I don’t know. Happy, or some shit.

“No way!” he protests.

I shrug. “I was going to do the whole bit, Sunshine. I figured last time I took you by surprise and didn’t do it right. So this time, it was going to be the full production.”

He giggles, the little shit. 

“What were you going to say?” he demands, a big grin on his face.

I shrug again, just enjoying the … joy … in his eyes.

“Oh, I had it all worked out. You know … something about buying a palace for my prince. All that romantic bullshit …”

“You were not!” he says, all breathy and excited - like a little kid. 

I grin at him.

“Well, maybe not exactly that,” I say. “But … you would have got the message.”

I look into his eyes, and make sure that he’s getting the message right now. For a moment I can’t place the look on his face. Then it hits me. It’s the fucking look he had that night of his birthday … when I told him I’d gotten him a present … the way he lit up like a fucking Christmas tree … before he saw … before he realized what a fuck up I was.

This time, I swear to myself, this time that isn’t going to happen. This time he gets to keep that look in his eyes for longer than a fucking millisecond. This time he’s going to get the whole fucking package - romance, marriage, whatever the fuck he wants. He’s been through all the shit, it’s time he got the payoff, and I’m fucked if anyone else is going to give it to him. That’s my privilege. Mine. 

I wrap my arm around his neck again and kiss him. His arms come round me and he’s breathing, “Brian! Oh, Brian!” over and over again between the kisses.

I cup his face in my hand. “So … we going to do this?”

He laughs for real then, his eyes absolutely blazing with light. Fuck! He is so fucking beautiful.

“Yes,” he says.


	18. Reverberations #18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally get to Chicago. Together.

Justin

He huffs and rolls his eyes when I ask him why we’re heading to West Virginia, but that’s how it feels, it’s so far outside the kinda seedy urban landscape of inner Pittsburgh that’s been home to me for the last five years - give or take those few months in LA. There are no old brownstone buildings or shiny glass sky scrapers. No gaudy shops and noisy traffic. Out here, it’s all quiet winding roads through gently rolling hills studded with huge trees. I spend the last few minutes of the ride trying to imagine Brian living here, spending weekends at least in this almost rural landscape and then realize that I can’t even imagine myself doing it.

It’s raining pretty heavily by the time we get to the house, so I don’t immediately take in what it’s like - I’m too busy running for the porch. But then Brian pulls out this huge old key and opens the front door, and I step into some kind of fantasy. Only the fact that it’s clearly not lived in convinces me that it’s a house and not some fancy-assed hotel, it’s so big, so … grand.

Brian pushes the door closed and then turns. One eyebrow raises, and he looks around the entrance hall. Then he shrugs and strolls forward into the house. Of course there’s no way he’s going to admit to being impressed by it. But … fuck me! he can’t seriously be thinking of buying this place. It’s fucking huge. What the hell would we do with it?

I follow him as he moves into a large beautiful room. Even covered in dust sheets, it’s beautiful. There are large windows, looking out across a rain-drenched lawn towards something that looks suspiciously like a tennis court. I mean, pretentious much? And an enormous fireplace. From there, there’s an arched doorway into a smaller, narrower room, and that opens into an amazing kitchen.

I wander through the kitchen, see through one doorway a short corridor that presumably opens into a back porch or the garage, because there’s a row of coat hooks on the wall next to the far door. Beyond that doorway there’s an arch that leads through to a long narrow room with tall windows all along it that’s probably used as the dining room. Then through that there’s another hallway and off that are a some smaller rooms - though they’re still like twice as big as Debbie’s living room; one is lined with bookshelves, and has a huge bow window complete with window seat, another has french windows that open onto what looks like a huge garden. It’s hard to see much of that though because the rain is really coming down now.

And all of these rooms are … they’re magnificent. They have high ceilings, with amazing moldings - cornices, and these incredible ceiling roses, and … 

As I finally find my way past a large staircase and back into the entrance hall, I turn to stare at Brian who’s been following my meanderings. 

“Brian, this place is …”

“A palace,” he says, with one of his slow grins. “I told you I was going to buy a palace for my prince.”

He’s laughing at me, but his eyes are doing something else, and I find myself starting to blush a little.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” he says suddenly and strides into that first beautiful room. In the few seconds it takes me to catch him up, he’s already crumpling paper from a basket near the log pile into the fireplace. I watch as he carefully adds kindling, and a couple of the smaller logs and then takes out his lighter. I hear the click and smell the first acrid puff of smoke as the paper catches, and then fire is crackling in the grate and that small noise makes me aware for the first time of the silence all around us. I can hear the whisper of flame and the hiss and patter of the rain outside and that’s all. No traffic noise, no horns blaring or music thumping. No voices, raised in laughter or in anger. Nothing. 

And I suddenly feel like this is the first time I have truly been alone with Brian. The feeling is amazing, like an immense arc of new experience and perceptions.

I take a step towards him and he stands.

“A palace, huh?” I ask, not finding words easy to come by, this situation is so far outside my experience with Brian.

I expect him to make some further joke, turn aside from anything serious like he always does, but in this new world that’s suddenly opened up to us he surprises me.

“If you want it,” he says.

Then I really have no words, because I might not be sure about the house, but I want him. More maybe, than I have ever wanted him; and in different ways. But … but …

I stare into his eyes for a long long moment and then hear my voice saying, “Why, Brian? Why now? Why would you change your mind like that? You’ve never …”

I hear my voice wobble and I stop. Not sure how to go on. Needing to know, but not sure if I want to hear his answers.

But he comes to me and takes my hands. Scrunching down a little, like he does sometimes when we’re dancing, he looks right into my eyes and says, “I want this, Justin. I want this for us.”

He pauses for a moment and then says forcefully, “We deserve this. We fucking deserve it.”

Then abruptly he turns away and goes to tend the fire which has now caught properly, he carefully feeds more logs onto it, using the poker to settle it in, keep it from burning too fast.

I watch the firelight flicker on his beautiful face, and then all at once this strange new world is overwhelmingly familiar and exciting and I know how to answer him. 

I start gathering together all the dust sheets, wreathing them into a soft warm nest on the floor behind him. When he turns to me again, I’m already half naked.

***

Brian

I hear him moving around, but I play with the fire for an extra minute or two, not too sure how to face him. We’ve never been in this situation before. And I sure as hell never expected to be here with him or anyone else. So for once I don’t know quite what to do, how to handle it.

Then I hear a familiar rustle and I stand and turn and he’s hopping on one foot, trying to shake the other foot free of his pants at the same time as he’s pulling his sweater and shirt together over his head. He’s piled all the dust sheets on the floor ready, ready for us. They might not be any fucking luxury bed, but I’ll take Justin on the dust sheets in this house that is going to be our fucking home over anyone else in the fanciest bed in the fucking universe.

I grin at him, and he finally kicks his pants off and tosses his sweater aside and then he just stands there, running his hands down his torso and his tongue over his lips.

I pounce.

He laughs, not his sexy little giggle, but a deep throaty laugh, and pulls me even closer against him.

“I love you,” he says. “Fuck me.”

Romantic little twat.

***

Justin

We never do get to look over the whole house. We check out a couple of the rooms upstairs, including one that has these great windows that look out across the garden. He nods and gives me a nudge and mutters something about “seeing the light” that makes us both laugh, but he’s right, the light is amazing, even on this dull wet day. This would make a perfect studio. We figure out that it’s directly above the room with the french windows and I tell him that would make a great office for him. I don’t know why but suddenly the thought of both of us having work space so close to each other, even if it’s on different floors, suddenly makes the idea of this place, of living in this place, seem slightly less impossible. I can actually imagine painting up here, while he’s working downstairs. I can almost hear his voice on the phone as he snarks at Ted or Cynthia. If we both had our windows open the sound would carry to me up here, and I can see myself tilting my head to listen and then getting on with my work with a smile on my face. 

Brian in “boss” mode always makes me smile. It’s kinda funny and at the same time it’s really hot.

I’ve never told him that though. He’s bad enough, he so does not need that kind of encouragement. Although, come to think of it, he probably knows. It’s all part and parcel of the bad-ass Kinney persona, and I know that’s a deliberate construction. Ergo he must know it’s hot, otherwise he would have constructed something different. But he still doesn’t need to hear it from me.

Anyway, by the time we’ve looked at all that, we have to hurry to catch our flight. Brian’s not all that stressed, he just says we can catch the next one, but I know it took a while for him to book us on a direct flight, and there’s no way I want to hang around for hours waiting for a later one, or else have to take one with a stop over in Washington, or worse, Harrisburg, or some stupid shit like that.

I’ve never flown first class before, and I can hardly wait to see what it’s like.

That time I went to Vermont, I down graded my ticket to economy - some bizarro sense of guilt, I guess that I was heading off on Brian’s dollar.

In many ways, that was the stupidest, most childish thing that I did in all the time that I was with him before. Worse than being so fucking stupid with the whole thing with Sap. When I look back on how badly I behaved when Brian was trying to save his job - and save both our asses in the process, knowing that without him having a job, I couldn’t have afforded school, or anything … I was such a fucking princess. I mean, I was hurt, really really hurting, because it seemed like I just meant nothing to him. It seemed like something that was so amazing and so precious to me … having a holiday with him … it seemed like to him it was just nothing. A lot of the time back then I felt that my loving him, needing him the way I did, was just a burden to him. Not that he didn’t want to be with me, but that I was so intense about it, that was something that he just had to put up with, and if he’d had a choice, then he would have preferred that I cared about him a lot less than I did. And that feeling … that what you regard as the best, the most real part of you, of your life … the feeling that that’s just a burden to the person you feel it for … that’s soul destroying. It really is.

I don’t know what I wanted from Brian in those months after the bashing. At least, I do know. I wanted him to make me feel whole. And I was somehow convinced, somewhere deep inside me, that the only way I could feel that would be if he loved me, wanted me, the way I wanted him. And when he didn’t come to Vermont, that’s when I knew that was never going to happen.

It was totally fucking dumb, because since then I’ve realized that Brian and I are completely different so of course we don’t love each other the same way. That’s like expecting Monet and Picasso to paint the same way. But just because they saw the world differently, and their techniques were different doesn’t mean that they didn’t both produce great art.

Now I know that Brian loves me just as much, feels just as deeply for me as I do for him. He’s just never going to express his feelings in the way that I would. Because, duh! he isn’t me.

Why it took me so long to figure that out, I don’t know. I guess I was just too fucking young.

Anyway, that’s all long past us, and this time we’re flying off to Chicago together. And it might only be for a few days, and it might mainly be a work trip for Brian, but …

We’re together.

And we’re engaged. Fuck! We’re fucking engaged!

Mikey’s going to have a cow. Or a relapse.

***

Brian

I’m a little surprised, I guess, that he doesn’t want to hang around at the house. I tell him we could spend the night there if we want to, but he’s keen to get on the damned plane, so eventually I let it go and we take off to Chicago on schedule.

I know he’s a little underwhelmed by the house - thinks it’s too big or some shit. But he can’t seriously think I’m going to buy some tiny little suburban cottage like Mel and Linds with no fucking room for anything, including the new baby. Well, no, there’s room for the new baby, apparently; it’s Gus who’s the problem. Because of course JR has to have the room next to theirs, but Gus keeps waking her up in the morning - like she never wakes him up in the night, screaming and fucking wailing. Shit! she’s got a mix of Mikey’s genes and Mel’s, she spends all her time moaning and whining - usually at the top of her lungs. But because Gus got out of bed a couple of times early and woke her up, now he’s got to move out of his room, but they don’t know where because they think he’s still too little to move into the attic room they made.

For fuck’s sake! Didn’t any of this occur to them before they fucking had another kid in a tiny two bedroom fucking house? But apparently not because they treated me to the full fucking production number about it while I was there earlier. I even offered to help them with the downpayment on a bigger fucking place - no way is my kid going to feel like he has no place in his own fucking home - but they got all pissy about that. At least Mel did, Linds just looked at me like I should know better than to upset Mel. Why the fuck moan at me about it if they’re not going to let me help fix it?

Just thinking about it gives me a fucking headache. And that’s not helped when, just as we’re walking into the terminal, I get a call from Debbie. She’s pissed that I’m not hovering over Mikey’s bedside. But the doctor’s say he’s out of any fucking danger, and I’m not his fucking partner. But of course, Deb still expects me to put Mikey first. I remind her that Justin was in that hell as well, that it’s the second time that some fucker has tried to kill him. And that he’s my partner and he’s the one I need to worry about. She grumbles, and bitches, but I finally tell her we’re about to board, and just hang up on her. 

I’m ready just to forget the whole fucking thing, because suddenly it’s all too fucking much trouble and I’d rather go to the fucking Baths and just …

But the check in is quick and smooth and, after the ride across the terminal, we head up to the flight club bar. Beside me, I can feel Justin simmering with excitement. I sneak a look at him while I order our drinks and he glows back at me. I feel the headache ease off just looking at him. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He’s the only one who counts and he’s here with me and for once I’m not fucking things up between us. For once, I’m making him fucking happy.

Although, even as I think that, his face clouds a little, and I can see the gerbils scurrying behind his eyes.

“Brian,” he says suddenly as we’re sinking into a couple of chairs in a secluded corner of the lounge, “we … you do know you don’t have to marry me, right?”

I snort a laugh. I can’t fucking help it.

“You mean you’re not pregnant?” I snipe.

“Brian!” he says in that voice that’s halfway between a whine and a reproof.

I grin at him, and then, seeing that he really is struggling with this apparently sudden turn around on every bit of bullshit I’ve spouted about marriage, I fight my natural inclination to never fucking explain and try to find the words.

“Justin,” I start. For some reason I feel fucking, I don’t know, nervous or some shit. I break off and take his hand. I know this is important. Maybe this is make or break for us, because he has to understand, he has to believe in this. Or it’s all fucking pointless.

“I don’t know anyone who deserves this more than we do,” I tell him. “We’ve fucking earned this. We’ve earned the right to stand up and say ‘this is us, we’re partners, we’re planning on making this fucking thing between us work, we plan on being together for a fucking long time, so get used to it’. No one deserves that more than we do. Not Mikey and Ben, not Linds and Mel with all their bullshit. No one.”

Although I can’t say it, because he’ll misread it, what I really mean is that he deserves it. After putting up with all my bullshit for all these years, and fighting me tooth and nail to get us to this point, he damned well deserves the chance to shove it down the throats of all our fucking “friends” who’ve given him so much shit over the years, never believing that we could make it, trying to undermine us at every fucking point. He deserves to fucking strut his stuff in front of all of them, and show them how little they fucking know us, how little they know him. He deserves everything … all the trimmings. He’s earned them.

But I deserve to be the one who gets to give them to him. I’ve fucking earned that.

***

Justin

I can feel tears welling in my eyes and I try to fight them back. 

I’m finally starting to understand why he suddenly wants marriage. And it’s almost overwhelming. He wants to send a message, an unmistakable message … not to me … he knows … I hope he knows … that I don’t need that any more. 

But to everyone else. Our friends. Our families. The assholes who tried to blow me to smithereens. Everyone.

He wants them to know that, no matter what they thought of our chances, he’s ready to put himself out there and say ‘we’re going to fucking make it’.

That’s what this whole marriage thing means to him. It’s about him taking a stand. And that is maybe the most amazing thing he’s ever done. It’s right up there, for me, with the Stockwell thing.

So all I can do now is what I’ve desperately wanted to do since he first asked me. I can say ‘yes’ with all my heart. And stand proud and tall beside him.

I mean … I said ‘yes’ earlier. But I still kept wondering ‘why?’. Now I understand, and I just feel … amazing.

Like together we can take on the world.

But right here, right now, all I can do is tangle my fingers around his, and smile at him, and let him see how happy I am.

He smiles back, though, a real smile, like he hardly ever does, and that makes me feel even more amazing.

He’s trying to persuade me to take a trip to the restroom with him, when they call our flight. He insists that we have plenty of time, but … this is almost like our honeymoon or something, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. So with him moaning and bitching a little, just for the sake of it, we get on the plane.

The seats are amazing. I could totally get to like this first class thing, I almost wish the flight was longer.

I’m sort of hoping that maybe he’ll try to persuade me into a mile high thing, but by the time the we finish the drinks and snacks the cabin attendants bring us, it’s almost time to strap in for the landing.

O’Hare is fucking huge. But Brian knows his way through it, and it hardly seems any time before we’re piling our luggage into the limo he’s organized to meet us. 

I guess I’d expected him to hire a car, but when I ask, he sort of shrugs. 

“We can, if you want,” he says, “but I figured we’d mainly be within walking distance of the hotel. If we want to go further, it’s easier to call the limo service than try to find parking.”

I nod, feeling a bit dumb that I hadn’t thought of that. I guess I’m just so used to Brian liking to be behind the wheel - it’s one of his control things. 

He smiles at me. “Just tell me if you want something,” he says. “We can have whatever you want. I just … didn’t think of it.”

I shake my head and smile at him as he slides into the limo beside me. “This is fine,” I say. “Better than fine,” I go on as I slide my hand into his.

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and lets his eyes drift down over my fingers clutching his, just to let me know what he thinks of something as lesbianic as holding hands in a limo, but then he just settles back against the cushions and looks out the window, leaving his hand right where it is. I laugh and move close enough to jostle my arm against his. His fingers tighten on mine, and I feel like my smile is going to split my face in half.

He’s booked into the Four Seasons. When we go to check in, the clerk checks the computer and then says obsequiously, “You’re booked into a Deluxe Suite, Mr. Kinney, which I’m sure you’ll find very comfortable. Would you prefer a Lake view or a city view?”

He shrugs, then turns to me. “What do you think, Mr. Taylor?”

I hardly hesitate. Cities are just cities, I’d much rather have the Lake view. I think about watching the way the water will change under the light, and am glad I brought my laptop as well as some pencils and crayons.

“Lake view, definitely, Mr. Kinney,” I smile at him.

And all the time I’m thinking, ‘Deluxe Suite, fuck!’. He’d normally book into the Executive Suite, I should know, I’ve rung enough of them. And he says he’s not fucking romantic. I’m almost surprised he didn’t book the Bridal Suite.

I give him a nudge as we walk across the lobby to the lift, to let him know I’m onto him and he huffs a laugh. 

We’re on the 45th floor and the view is just amazing. When we first walked into the suite, I saw the view from the windows that took up nearly the whole wall in living area - a great sweep of the lake shore - and thought that was beautiful. Then I turned around realized that the window on the end wall looked straight out across the lake. Being Chicago, it’s pretty windy but we’d left the rain behind in Pittsburgh and the light was refracting from a million different facets in the wind tossed water. 

Now, while Brian fusses over his clothes, and organizes to get his suit pressed for the meeting on Monday, I’m sitting on the bed staring out at the same view from the bedroom window. My fingers are itching to get out some pencils, pastels, anything to try to capture that scintillation of light, but there are other things I want to do more.

Finally, Brian hangs up the phone having made arrangements to leave the suit on the bed if we go out before housekeeping arrive, and stands looking down at me. 

“You can draw on Monday while I’m with Brown,” he says, like he can read my mind.

I grin at him and put my hand on his hip to pull him closer. I’m kind of surprised when he moves away, but then there’s a knock on the door, so I guess it’s just as well we didn’t get started. Once the maid heads off with Brian’s precious damned Armani suit and a list of instructions on exactly how it has to be treated we’ve got the place to ourselves, though, and he still doesn’t want to play.

I pout at him and he gives me a look - a bit nervous, maybe. Certainly serious.

“There’s a place I’d like to go and have a look for …” his voice gets even more hushed and serious, “our rings.”

I stare at him, my heart suddenly pounding.

Fuck! We are really going to do this!

“If you want,” he says. Then after a moment while I try to get my tongue to work, he goes on. “It’s just … if they need resizing, and we get them today, we could probably pick them up on Monday or Tuesday before we go home.”

I can’t hear if he says anything else because the blood is pounding so hard in my ears.

I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck.

“I fucking love you,” I tell him.

In the end, we go to about six places, before we find just what we want. Which might seem strange, because they’re really plain. 

But there’s plain as in boring and dull and there’s plain as in so fucking simple and elegant that they practically scream style. And money.

I nearly have a heart attack when I realize the price. I’d wanted to pay for Brian’s, but, even with the money I’ve got left from Rage, that would be a serious problem, but of course Brian shrugs it off.

“They’re what we want,” he says. “It doesn’t matter who pays for what. As long as it’s what we want.”

I have to fight not to argue with him about that.

It sucks that it’s always his money whenever it’s anything really expensive. But what are the fucking choices? I’ve still got some left from Rage - most of the money we got for the movie rights, and a good chunk I saved from my salary. But it’s still nowhere near what Brian brings to the table and he’d have conniptions if I used it just to make some damned point, or out of what he’d see as false pride. Someday things might be different, I sure as fuck hope they are. But … they are how they are. There isn’t anything I can do about that right now unless I want us to have to downscale, and for him to have to settle for less than the best just to salve my pride. That would just be dumb.

Maybe I can at least get him to let me pay for dinner.

***

Brian

I expect more of an argument over who’s paying for the rings. I know him. Know that it must bug him to give way on this. But thank fucking God he doesn’t say much, just lets it go.

His ring fits fine, mine needs re-sizing a little so we make arrangements to get that done, and to pick them both up on Monday. He’ll probably have to do that; I’ll be tied up in meeting with Leo Brown all day. Or maybe we can both go together on Tuesday, before we fly home.

We leave the very discreet jewelry showroom, and browse some clothing stores for a while. I persuade him to try on a few things, and as he climbs in and out of clothing I enjoy watching the show, but all of that is really just a prelude to heading back to the hotel. 

I have to feed him first, of course. He wants to get some damned crap from a street vendor, but I persuade him to wait for room service. He’s about to argue, when I let the tip of my tongue slide out over my bottom lip and mention how he could order a nice creamy dessert. His eyes get that look then, the one that makes them look darker, a much deeper blue. That’s not it, of course, it’s just that the pupils expand so far, the clear blue iris nearly disappears. I swear his lips swell while I’m looking at them, just at the thought of what he could do with that cream, and suddenly I have to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. 

Not for the first time, I’m struck with gratitude for the fact that the one man on the planet I could hope to have any sort of fucking relationship with is as hot and horny as I am. Since the very first night when I popped his cherry and introduced him to the delights of sucking and fucking, he has made it clear over and over again that he loves sex as much as I do. All kinds of sex. 

I taught him about down and dirty sex; and he taught me how fucking amazing it can be with someone who knows all your sweet spots and just when to hit them; and somehow we taught each other about whole lexicons of sex that I’d never imagined, never thought I’d want to explore. We discovered together the incredible feeling of lying locked together, just rocking slowly against each other, nothing fast, nothing urgent, just this slow sweet simmer that we can keep going for what seems like fucking hours, before we turn up the heat and let all that slow built passion boil over. Or how fucking amazing it can be to have someone explore your whole body with their mouth; to feel them kiss and lick and suck their way from your toes to your finger tips and all points in between and to be able to just lay there passively and let them, knowing that you’ll get your turn, your chance to turn them to mush the way they are doing to you, sometime - if not today, then tomorrow or next week. 

Like I said, not something I thought I’d ever fucking want, but that was before Justin. Before I’d had the chance to find out.

Of course, before Justin I’d never have had the balls to let myself find out; because to do it to someone else is too much fucking trouble and there is no fucking way I would have let any trick try those things on me - why would I? Not only could I not see the point, but … the truth is, you’re fucking vulnerable in that state. If he’d really understood all that back then, the whole bullshit with Ethan would never have happened because he would have known what it said about how I saw his place in my life that I let him do that stuff, that I did that stuff with him. 

But he gets it now. 

Funnily enough, the main thing that I alternately want to thank the fiddler for, and to beat his brains out over, is that he taught Justin that lesson. I doubt little Sunshine will ever let himself be that vulnerable with anyone else again. Only with me; because with me he doesn’t have to try to protect himself. There’s no point; any more than there is for me to try to keep the walls up any more. We’re way past where there’s any fucking use in trying to protect our fragile little hearts from each other. On a bad day we can shred each other just with a look. And there’s nothing either of us can do about that.

But on a good day …

***

Justin

The thing is, sometimes when things are tough with Brian, they are really tough. Like, I hate it when there’s something bugging him and he won’t talk about it. 

It used to make me completely paranoid, because I always felt that if he wouldn’t talk about it, it must be to do with me. I personalized everything. I try not to do that now. I understand better that he most stuff he just doesn’t think is worth talking about. All the little shitty things like work, and when the car needs a service but he can’t find the time, and when the dry cleaners lost his favorite shirt for a week. Most people go on and on about that stuff, but Brian doesn’t. 

I guess I’ve finally worked out that I don’t, really, either. I mean, I used to wish that he’d talk to me more about his work and stuff, but I finally realized (yet another lesson that Ethan taught me) that all that noise can make you miss hearing what’s really important. So now, I don’t say much about all that little stuff either.

But there are times when there were things he really should have discussed with me, and he didn’t, and they caused major problems for us. Like the cancer. And how paranoid he was getting that I was going to stay in fucking LA. And like about Gardner Vance and why he didn’t have any choice about making that trip to Chicago way back when.

But he’s getting better about that stuff, and I’m getting better at listening to the little things he does let slip, and somehow we’re making it work.

Because, and nobody seems to get this, when things are good with Brian they are better than great. I don’t mean when things are spectacularly fucking wonderful, I mean, just ordinary every day good. Most days when we’re just going about our lives, it’s pretty fucking amazing. I mean, I don’t sit there and think, ‘Fuck, but I’m happy today. I really am a lucky little shit.’ But maybe I should. Because I think maybe life isn’t like that for most people. Most people don’t get to share their lives with someone who gets them, and who totally supports them.

I do. And I hope that Brian does too. That he feels that he does, I mean. Because it’s an amazing feeling. And that’s how it is on just the ordinary every day good days.

Then there are days like today. Which has just been surreal.

I woke up to find myself on the front page of the paper. I did an interview with the fucking Washington Post for Christ’s sake, about me and my life, and how all the shit that has happened to me has affected me, affected my art. Then I went with Brian to look at a house he’s thinking of buying for us. I practically proposed to him, and then he turned it around and proposed to me again instead. We’ve actually managed to get out of the Pitts together for the first time (well, not counting New York when we didn’t actually go together, however hot it might have been when he caught up with me there); he booked us into the most amazing room, with an incredible view. We went shopping for our wedding rings. Fuck!

And we have just had the most amazing sex I think we’ve ever had. Hotter even than New York, and sweeter than the night he first made love to me after the bashing.

I’m going to have to have my third shower of the day because I can still feel the oiliness of cream and the stickiness of custard in places that they just have no business to be, and Brian has something that looks like a piece of watermelon squashed into his hair. The bed is a wreck. Brian says that he’ll get housekeeping to make it up fresh for us while we’re out. I’m feeling kind of lazy and languid and I’m thinking we should maybe just stay here, but he’s relentlessly pulling me up and into the shower. I don’t know why he’s all hot and bothered, it’s way too early to hit the clubs, we could take a nap and still find time for dinner before we go out.

But I feel better after the shower and only have the tiniest argument with him about the clothes he wants me to wear. He says we should dress for dinner at a decent restaurant, that we can always come back and change if we want to go clubbing later. I’d rather not stuff around with all that, and I want to wear the hot little blue top he likes; the one that shows off my nipples and gets him all hot and bothered but he gets all pissy and says it’s not suitable. I want to tell him “Fuck dinner”. It’s not like I’m not even all that hungry right now. I mean, we just ate when we got back to the room. Well, I did, anyway, and Brian did have at least some stuff, even if the “serving plate” was kind of unconventional. 

But he’s so obviously got something special planned that I have to go along with it, just hoping I’m not going to regret it later. (Because honestly, some of Brian’s surprises are seriously for shit.)

So I give in and let him dress me, and okay, there might be a bit of eye rolling involved, because seriously, he has a control freak side that’s almost bigger than his ego, but finally he’s happy with how I look (after another fucking session of pulling clothes on and off and not for any useful reason) and we get out of the suite without killing each other.

We’re waiting for the elevator and I give him just a quick glance. He’s got this whole tongue planted in his cheek smirk going on, but aside from that … 

His eyes meet mine and despite his best efforts, he’s fucking smiling. A real honest to God smile. He huffs some little sort of laugh, like he’s embarrassed about it or something, and looks away. So of course then I have to pull him against me and kiss him. He rests his forehead against mine just for a moment, then the elevator arrives and we step in, our hands somehow tangling together and I lean into him a little. He’s warm and solid next to me and I can feel his breath against my temple and feel his heart beat under my free hand when I place it on his chest and he’s so … with me, so together with me, that it’s just … I feel like I’m flying apart - like all the little atoms that make up Justin Taylor are just bursting out of themselves with pure joy, and at the same time I feel more solid, more centered, than I have ever felt in my life. As if right now, right this minute, I’m exactly who I’m meant to be. And then the elevator arrives at the ground floor and we walk out of the building still holding hands like a couple of teenagers.

It’s one of those moments that I want to hold in my head, in my heart, forever. 

See when things are bad with Brian, they can be really shitty.

But most days are better than great.

And some days, like today, are just fucking … 

I can’t find any words. I don’t know if there are words for how this feels.

Someday I’ll paint it, and the critics will fall over themselves when they see it and everyone will want it, just because of the way it makes them feel when they look at it, but I’ll never ever sell it. I’ll give it to him instead, and then it will always be there to remind us, on the tough days, that sometimes we get it abso-fucking-lutely right.

***

Brian

One thing about the right hotels is that cabs magically appear on the doorstep when you want them. 

I guess the magic theme is appropriate tonight, and he fits right in, because he looks like he stepped out of some damned Disney feature - too beautiful to be real and I can practically see those little star shaped highlights in his eyes they’re shining so fucking brightly.

Then we pull up at our destination, and after one fucking incredulous look at me to make sure that he’s got it right, he squeals like the little fucking princess he used to be and practically shoves me onto the pavement he’s so anxious to get out the damned car. Then he’s all over me, dancing up and down like he’s fucking five years old and what pisses me off about that is that I should find it totally not cool. Completely unattractive. I should be tempted to tell him to calm down or I’ll fucking walk off and leave him.

Instead of which, something inside me is …

The truth is I am so fucking grateful that somewhere under all the cynicism that he’s had to learn, all the hard truths that have been literally knocked into him, he’s still Justin.

Somewhere there’s still the enthusiastic boy I met under a lamppost. The one who wasn’t afraid to get excited and show his feelings so openly.

The one I couldn’t crush.

The one that apparently nothing can crush. He’s been through so much fucking pain and heartbreak and things that would have just destroyed most people. And yet here he is, hanging onto my arm and going all “wow!” and “look at that!”, his eyes everywhere, as we make it to the Box Office to collect our tickets, and then move into the theatre.

He smiles up at me and it’s fucking blinding and I tangle my fingers in his hair and give him a look that’s as close to a kiss as I feel able to give him standing here in straightland surrounded by breeders and their families without risking some bullshit scene that we can both do without. He smiles even wider, his hand squeezing mine more tightly, and I hear the almost embarrassed little laugh he gives, before he edges us both closer to the concession stand with all its “souvenir programs” and shit.

“Later,” I tell him. Promise him. “After the show. You don’t want to have to cart shit around all night.”

But his eyes are still on the program, so I go to reach for my wallet. 

“Brian, no,” he says, the silly little shit. “I don’t expect you to buy me stuff like that.”

Then he’s pulling out his own wallet, so I shrug, and tell him I’m going to get a drink and let him buy himself the damned program. I can get him the other stuff later. Or maybe order it online if he gets all huffy about me buying it tonight. Whatever.

Whatever he wants.

He finds me at the bar, and I hand him his drink and watch his face as he studies the program. 

“It looks amazing,” he says, eyes raising to meet mine, and shining like some fucking supernova.

I shrug again and he laughs.

“Don’t even try, Kinney,” he says. “I’m onto you, remember.”

He drops his voice and moves closer, stretching up a little so he can whisper in my ear, “And I’ll be suitably grateful for all this torture you’re putting yourself through later.”

I give him a look to let him know that he’d better be, but the little shit laughs again. A sound of pure fucking joy.

Then he smiles at me, less blindingly, but somehow warmer, more intimate.

“Brian Kinney gives a shit,” he says softly, tenderly; God fucking help me, lovingly.

Well, he fucking got that right, at least.

“I love you,” he breathes.

I hand him the tickets to pass to the usher, and he smiles into my eyes. A smile that says he knows what the tickets, what this whole fucking trip is about.

A smile that says how happy I’m making him. A smile that lets me know that sometimes I can fucking get it right. Absofuckinglutely right.

Then he gives another little jig of excitement.

I knew that bringing him to see _Wicked_ would be a good idea.


	19. Reverberations #19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end now. But don't assume.
> 
> I started my _Homecoming_ fic (to which this is really the prequel) right at the end of S5, with Justin living in New York, Brian in Pittsburgh and the girls and Gus in Toronto.
> 
> They might, however, take slightly different routes to canon.

Justin

 _Wicked_ is fantastic. The story is clever and the songs are okay and visually it’s just amazing. The costumes remind me of the illustrations for Dickens' Sketches by Boz back in the 1800’s. I love them. The whole show kind of reminds me of Brian … well, the main character sort of does, anyway. It sounds pathetic if I say that they’re both “misunderstood”. But they’re both strong, and both doing what they see as the right thing even when everyone else around them condemns them for it, and really, they’re the ones who are living their lives ethically and with integrity while all the “good” characters are really kind of corrupt. Something like that, anyway.

And there’s one song that really speaks to me. It’s one the two main characters sing to each other about how their lives have totally changed because they’ve known each other. And that is so true of Brian and I. I mean, my life was always going to change in those years - finishing high school, starting college, all of that was always going to bring big changes. But knowing Brian has changed me - not just the external obvious things, but the deep down part of me. That deepest part of me has changed because meeting Brian, going home with him that first night, being treated the way he treated me, gave that inner core of me a sense of validation and confidence that nothing, not my father, not Chris Hobbs, not Ethan, not all the shit out in Hollywood, nothing, has really been able to shake. Because he treated me that night not like some silly kid, but like another gay man, a gay man he found attractive and wanted to fuck; and the whole experience of being with someone, being desired by someone, who was so confident about his sexuality somehow made it okay for me to be that way too. To the end of my life and maybe beyond I’ll be grateful to Brian for that alone. 

Since then, of course, he’s always encouraged me to be that guy, the one who knows what he wants and goes for it, and generally tries to live life on his own terms. He’s always supported me doing that, even when it led to crap like the whole Ethan fiasco. And I don’t think many people get that sort of support in their lives. Which is really sad, because having that, having a friend who gave me that, was truly life-changing for me.

But he’s changed too because of me and I’d like to hope and think it was kind of for the same reason - that knowing me has validated something in him that he’d never had any confidence in before that. I mean, Michael used to pride himself on how well he knew Brian, and how they were ‘best friends’. But either that’s complete shit or he’s an even bigger prick than I think he is. Because he always treated Brian, always behaved, as if Brian really is the asshole they all kept calling him. I never once heard Michael tell anyone that Brian isn’t nearly as big an asshole as they all make out, and that most of them could give him a run for his money in that department any day. Michael didn’t even tell Brian that. Never. He made totally pathetic “excuses” for him maybe, perhaps even told Brian that he loved him anyway. But Mikey made it clear to everyone that he loved Brian despite him being an asshole (he’s perfected what I call the ‘martyr Mikey whine’). He never once told Brian or anyone else that that whole asshole persona thing is for shit, never reminded even his best friend, let alone anyone else, what a good person Brian is, how much he helps people, how lucky everyone is to have him around. 

But with me … I try to. He won’t always let me, but except for that stupid time with Ethan and all that crap (that I like to put down to PTSD because otherwise I’d have to admit that I was completely fucking stupid and a total prick into the bargain), aside from all that … I’ve always tried to let Brian know that I was onto him. That I knew the goodness he liked to keep hidden away. 

And I like to think that by doing that I’ve helped him feel like he’s okay, like he’s not a total asshole, that he’s as capable of love as anyone else, and that his friends’ lives are better because he’s in them. And that that’s especially true for his son. I know that he’s been spending more time with Gus over the last year and that’s great. It’s great for Brian, and it’s even more great for Gus. He needs to know his father, needs to know how much his father loves him. And whatever Brian might think of himself as a father, I know, I know that he’s a much better father than the one either of us grew up with. Brian would never raise a hand to Gus, or let anyone else for that matter, and he’d certainly never turn his back on him, no matter what. I think maybe Brian knows that now about himself. And that I’ve helped in that a little at least.

So I feel like maybe I’ve changed Brian “for good” as well. I hope so, anyway.

Anyway, the show is great and afterwards we take a cab to a restaurant called Red Light that the concierge had recommended. It’s an Asian restaurant and the décor is … well, different. All red and dramatic with lots of sinuous curved shapes. Really interesting. And the food is great. Even Brian actually eats with enjoyment. Although maybe that’s just because … well, because. Because we’re together, and we’re happy and there are no fucking dramas. Just us.

He lets me pick up the tab without even bitching about it which makes me feel even better about … everything. Like we really are partners, I mean equal partners. And I know that’s dumb considering how much he’s laid out for air fares, and the hotel and everything and all I do is pay for one meal, but it still does. Then we head back to the hotel to change and to drop off the program and stuff from the show. When I’d come back from the men’s room after the show he’d shoved this bag into my hand like he wouldn’t be seen dead with it. He’d bought me all sorts of Wicked souvenir stuff, even a “defy gravity” tee shirt. He said that was because he figures it’s what I do when we’re fucking in the shower sometimes, but really, he’d just bought it for me. I didn’t need it, or really even want it but I … it’s so amazing that he bought it that I feel like I’ll treasure it forever. 

I can so totally imagine the look on his face if I ever said that to him that it makes me start laughing and then he wants to know what’s so funny, and that gets into … well, anyway, we have to have another shower before we get changed.

Then we head out for a taste of Chicago’s gay nightlife. This time, Brian doesn’t ask for a recommendation from anyone. I figure he’s been on enough business trips to Chicago not to need one. There’s something about that that makes me feel like I want to stop and think for a moment, but we’re pushing up to a crowded bar, and there’s lots of hot guys and Brian is slipping a tab of “E” towards me on his tongue and I figure there’ll be time to think later.

The whole club visit merges in my mind into lights and the feel of the individual beads of sweat rolling down my face and my back, and the heat in my groin. There’s a time when there’s darkness lit only by a dull red glow instead of the bright lights and the feel of Brian inside me and around me and I know we’re in the backroom; and then we’re back in the light and Brian is pushing more water at me, and then we’re dancing again and after that it’s even more blurred but it’s all good.

Eventually we stumble out of the club, or I stumble and Brian laughs and holds me up until we can find a cab. I try to suck his tongue in the cab, but he laughs some more and tells me to wait. I pout and look out the window instead and watch the lights refracting from the road so I realize it’s been raining. Then somehow we’re in the hotel lobby waiting for the lift and then finally, finally we’re in our room and I can find his mouth and try to devour him and climb inside him at the same time.

***

Brian

I’m not sure that either of us needed any drugs last night, we both seemed to be flying so fucking high. I guess we still are this morning. Part of me is waiting for the crash. But I have to admit that mainly I’m just enjoying the ride. I had no fucking idea it could feel like this, that I could feel like this.

I’m sitting here sipping coffee while he devours a room service breakfast big enough for at least three people. He’s sitting crossed legged on the bed wearing only that fucking tee shirt and grinning from ear to ear every time he catches my eye. Not that that happens all that often because at the same time he’s shoveling food in his face, he’s also got his sketch book balanced on his knee and trying to draw.

My main complaint about that is that the damned book is obstructing what should be a very nice view.

I’m tossing up whether to risk the wrath of artist interruptus by snatching it off him, or just to see if I can get him to toss it aside in favor of other activities when my cell rings. When I check the number it’s Jennifer, so I answer. I figure I might as well occupy myself while he refuels anyway.

She wants to know what we think about the house. I counter by asking her what she thinks the seller will accept for it. 

It’s a fucking fortune, but I knew that. If the insurance money doesn’t come through quickly, I might even have to re-mortgage the loft to provide a big enough down payment. He realizes who I’m talking to and what we’re talking about because he starts making all these fucking faces at me. Twat. He must know that I’m not going to live in some tiny suburban nightmare like Mikey and Ben. This is a place that … well, that he can be proud of. Somewhere that if he wants to invite some agent or gallery owner to dinner or some shit that they’ll be fucking impressed. 

He needs some kind of showcase. So it’s either find a decent studio for him as well as a house or just do the thing right in the first place.

Little twat might think it’s all about his Art, but that’s only part of it. He has to sell the whole package and all that starving artist stuff is crap. People who’ve got the right kind of money don’t want to pay huge amounts for a piece by some fucking failure who can’t even eat because no-one wants to buy their work; let alone the fucking heads up their asses gallery representatives. They all want a piece by the latest success story.

And that’s what they’ll know they’re getting when they walk into that house. Any passing thought that he’s just some kept boy will go out their fucking heads as soon as they see the place. Because his stuff - just a few of his best pieces, enough to whet their appetites and get them salivating for more - will be properly hung and lighted and as soon as they see them the pricks will be fucking blown away. 

Galleries will be falling over themselves to hang his stuff once they see it in those circumstances. He’ll be able to pick and choose and make them feel fucking lucky if he condescends to let them show a piece.

But I can’t do that for him in some stupid fucking little suburban nest. So I’m getting this fucking house for him and then we’ll deal with all the shit that comes with it. Upkeep and all that crap. You pay people to look after all that shit for you.

But right now I’ve had enough of him sitting there feeding himself. We’ve got things to do today but before that he needs to work off some of those fucking calories. So I tell Ma Taylor to do whatever she needs to do to close the deal. Then I put the phone down right in his line of vision and stretch - slowly.

His eyes darken that way they do, and his lips go even redder and that’s it, boys and girls. Play time.

*****

Justin

I can feel Brian getting more and more antsy and I haven’t even finished breakfast before he pounces. He does this sort of come hither stretch thing which is the only warning I get. Next thing he’s dragging the tray off the bed. It hits the floor with a crash - fuck help the plates and stuff!, and then he snatches my sketch book and throws it across the room where it knocks over a lamp. I start laughing and then he’s on me and we’re both laughing and kissing and touching until the laughter turns into grunts and groans and eventually into soft sighs. Then we lay for a while in each other’s arms just sort of … well, cuddling. But God knows I’d never dare use that word for anything Brian Kinney does.

Finally he pulls away and slaps me on the ass. 

“Get that fat ass into gear, Sunshine!” he says.

I laugh at him and tell him he likes my ass just fine.

“I fucking won’t if you keep eating the way you do,” he threatens, but then he’s pulling me up off the bed into his arms and his lips are nibbling mine and from the way his hands are caressing said ass I’d say there’s no immediate sign that it turns him off. 

“What’s the rush?” I murmur, ready to slide down to my knees.

He lets me, but as his hand tangles in my hair he says briefly, “Appointment. Tailor. Need to get our tuxes.”

And for the first time in like forever, since I was a total know-nothing kid, I nearly choke on his cock.

*****

Brian

Stupid little twat nearly swallows my cock whole and not in a fucking good way. I manage to pull away before those perfect WASP teeth can do any damage, but Jesus!

By the time he stops coughing and spluttering, I’ve given up all thought of letting that lethal mouth anywhere near my cock for a while and have headed into the bathroom. He follows me all “when did you …?” and “why?” and “where?” and all these other stupid fucking questions. 

Even to him it should be fucking obvious. Outside of New York, there’s nowhere in the country, not even LA, that is a better place to shop for clothes than Chicago. There’s serious money in this town and that naturally attracts serious ways to spend it. Including top designers, and exclusive tailors. We haven’t talked about a date for the wedding yet, but if we have time I’d seriously consider getting something custom made except that it would be a fucking pain in the ass to keep flying back and forth for fittings.

If we buy say, a couple of Armani tuxes - or maybe Armani or Prada for me and something like Calvin Klein for Justin - then we can have them fitted, agree the alterations, and come back in a couple of weeks for a final fitting.

The range of designer tuxedos here is sure as Hell going to be much wider than in fucking Pittsburgh, that’s for sure.

But if I explain all that too him he’ll get all fucking huffy and tell me not to patronize him, so I just shrug and concentrate on making sure that he forgets to be mad about me being such a so-called fucking control freak. It seems to work because after I show him how a blow job should be (and I thought I’d taught him that at least a long time ago) he’s relaxed and mellow and even a bit giddy about what to wear.

That’s okay. As long as he doesn’t wear any of his usual teenage mutant artist shit he’ll look just fine.

Better than fine.

*****

Justin

I suppose I should be pissed off that Brian’s gone into major control freak mode over this whole fucking wedding thing, but …

The thing is, he’s doing it for me. It’s all about making some huge fucking statement to show our friends how “committed” he is to me.

And although that’s really a crock of shit, because the only one he really needs to convince is me, and I don’t need convincing, not any more, it’s still amazing. And what’s even more amazing, what makes it even better is that he’s really getting off on all this. He’s enjoying it. He’s letting himself enjoy my enjoyment … if that makes sense.

I guess it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we’re more or less on the same page for once and I’m not going to wreck it by turning into some sort of drama princess just because Brian’s being Brian. 

So I let him pick out my clothes and let him hustle us off to this exclusive men’s outfitters. I don’t scream when he takes forever to go through about fifty different tuxedos that all look the fucking same to me. I don’t even bitch when he makes me try on three of them. Because by the time he’s done, I’m standing in front of all these mirrors looking at myself and at him and … it’s totally amazing. I look … I look like I’m ready to be his fucking partner is what. And he … he is so … beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him.

He comes to stand behind me, all tall and impossibly elegant and his eyes meet mine in the mirror and … there’s this sort of shyness in his. He’s smiling, a really sweet sort of shy little smile and … I feel the room whirl around for a moment, and then that passes, and just like that I’ve got another piece of that night back. That night, the other time that we both wore tuxes and he looked at me with that same shy look. I hadn’t remembered that, but now I do. I remember being in the parking garage with him, and he went to kiss me, and then stopped, and looked at me exactly like that and …

Fuck! 

I turn to him and pull his head down so I can kiss him and whisper against his lips, “I fucking love you, Brian Kinney. I really fucking do.”

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t have to. His eyes say it for him.

Then he kisses me and everything that either of us might want to say just becomes redundant. Who the fuck needs words?

 

 

*****

Brian

My tux is mostly fine, his needs a little more work. It’s that bubble butt of his. They tell me they can have the alterations done by Tuesday - for a price of course. But that’s still going to be cheaper than return air fares to come back for it later, so I arrange a final fitting before we fly home and then while we’re on our way out I call the airline and change us to a later flight on Tuesday.

Then we have the rest of the day to play. I’d like to look for some more clothes, but I know he’s at his limit, so instead we head off to get some food and then I blow his mind completely by steering us down to the lakeshore and onto one of the damned tourist trap cruise boats.

I can tell that he thinks I’ve completely lost my mind, but the truth is that Chicago has some incredible architecture and every time I come here, people fall over themselves to tell me that the best way to see a lot of it is from the river. I was going to tell him to take the cruise tomorrow while I’m dazzling Leo Brown, but suddenly … I don’t want to. I don’t want to hear about it from him. I want to share it with him. And if that means sharing it with a hundred fucking losers, well … that’s just too fucking bad.

*****

Justin

No one will believe this. Even though I manage to catch Brian in a couple of the photos I take everyone will think I’ve faked them. There is no way that they are going to believe that he not only got on this boat, but that it was his own fucking idea. 

He even keeps his bitching to a minimum - the only complaint he really makes is about the coffee from the snack bar on board. I guess it’s not really great but at least it’s warm. It’s not raining today, but even on the river the wind is cold. I hate to think what it would be like out on the lake. But we both have on warm coats and scarves, so as long as we stand close together, we pretty much keep warm. 

And the tour is so totally worth it. Some of the buildings are just amazing; there are some by Mies van der Rohe that are so simple, such clean uncluttered lines that it’s hard to realize that at the time they were built they were practically revolutionary. 

By the time we get off the boat, I feel … I feel totally swept off my feet by this guy I’m with. The one who looks like Brian. The one who smells like Brian, kisses like Brian, even tastes like Brian … but is a Brian I’d only ever had glimpses of before. Now he’s … he’s here. With me. Totally with me. 

If I’d known that getting married was going to do this for us, I’d have …

But it’s probably not that. Well, not entirely that. I think a lot of it is because it’s just us. No one here knows either of us. No one gives a fuck what we do, how we behave towards each other. So we’re both free to just be us. Without everyone else’s ideas and expectations overshadowing every single thing we do, like it is at home.

That starts me thinking. I guess I sort of expected that if Brian ever proposed to me, seriously proposed to me, I’d be on the phone telling everyone just about as soon as the ‘yes’ was out of my mouth. But I realize that I haven’t even called my Mom. I mean, they’ve got a lot going on back there, with Michael in hospital and all that, but it isn’t just that. I just don’t want them all over it. In a way, I’m dreading going back and having to face them.

So right now I’m not going to think about that. Right now I’m with Brian and he’s doing everything he possibly can to make this a great time for me, for us. 

The least I can do is concentrate on him and not think about all that stuff. It can wait till we get home.

*****

Brian

The gerbils were scurrying for a while, but now he’s back here with me. He grins up at me, and nudges my arm with his shoulder. I laugh and he slides his hand into mine. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder close so it’s not really obvious. If anyone wants to take exception they can get fucked. I squeeze his fingers and he smiles that smile up at me from under the blond hair that’s flying everywhere in this wind. Fucking Chicago.

We get off the boat and find somewhere to get a decent cup of coffee. It’s a small bar, dark and intimate, and I order mine with a shot of Irish Whiskey in it. He grins at that, but asks for Baileys in his. I pull a face and he laughs again.

It strikes me how relaxed he is, and that I’ve maybe never seen him so … happy. Simply happy.

And I’d like to believe that it’s because he’s looking forward to gloating about the fact that we’re getting fucking married, or that it’s because I’ve bought him a fucking mansion, or because we’re going back to that fancy-assed hotel suite because if it was then I could figure out a way to go on making those grand gestures and that would be sure to keep him this happy. But the truth is that I know it’s none of those things that’s put that look on his face - it’s this, sitting here with me while we try to defrost after just about freezing our asses off on that stupid damned boat. 

It’s not the big things that make Justin happy, never was. It certainly isn’t the fucking things I can buy him. It’s the little things, always the little things. Like just spending time together, doing stuff like any other fucking couple. And that scares the shit out of me because I’m fine with the big gestures, but I suck at getting the little things right.

I shrug that thought away, though. Because today I did. And last night. He loved that fucking show. Well, at least, he loved me taking him to there. So right now I am getting the little things right.

While we’re here, at least; where I’m not looking over my shoulder worried about what everyone and his gay monkey will think about me doing anything as fucking hetero as going to the theater, or as hokey as going on that damned tourist trap boat. I’m such a chicken shit fake. Ranting on about ‘no apologies, no regrets’ like I fucking live my life without giving a shit what anybody thinks about what I do, when all the time I’m more fucking scared of other people’s opinion than the most pathetic closet case on the planet.

Most of the times that I’ve really fucked things up with Justin it’s been because I’ve been more worried about what some other fucker would think of me than about him. So being here with him, it’s easy to stop all that and just enjoy being with him. Just enjoy him enjoying being with me. Being back in the Pitts, where Mikey and Deb and all the rest of them just have to put in their two cents’ worth about what I’m doing and why … that will be another story.

Especially when they fucking hear that we’re getting married. 

They’ll be all over it and I can hear the sniggers now.

Not that I mind that so much, let the fuckers laugh if they just leave us alone; but the thing is … I know that whenever I fuck up they’ll be all over me about that as well. I can just fucking hear them, ‘you’re married now, Brian, isn’t it time you learned to keep it in your pants’.

Fuck!

“Hey!”

Just as his voice cuts through Debbie’s whine in my head (no guesses for where Mikey learned that technique), I get a kick on the ankle.

“Where did you go?”

I shrug. Don’t want to get into that with him. He’ll think I’m having fucking second thoughts, and it isn’t that. I want him. I want a life with him. I even want him to know I want a life with him. Hell, for that matter, I guess I want everyone to know I want a life with him. I just don’t want all the shit that’s going to come with that from our so called friends.

His eyes look right into me for a moment and then they soften.

“Thanks for today,” he says. “I mean, I could have gone on that trip tomorrow, when you’re at work, but it was much better …”

“With my hot body keeping you warm,” I strive for my usual smart ass touch.

“Always,” he laughs.

I let my tongue slide over my lips then into my cheek. 

“You still look to me as if you’re in severe need of warming up,” I tell him. 

He grins, and nods. Then he shakes his head despondently. “I think it’s serious,” he says. “I just don’t think external applications are going to get the job done.”

“I see,” I say. “So … another cup of coffee, then?”

He gives one of those little giggles that should drive me nuts but don’t. (Which should have told me years ago how fucked I was by that bright eyed little twink who used to hang on my every word.)

“Oh, no,” he says, this hot and sexy man who is so fucking brave he’s willing to take me on. Again. “I think the medicine was right.”

He blinks at me slowly, and damn him I find myself getting hard just watching those long lashes sweep down over those blue blue eyes.

“I think a dose of your hot body is exactly what I need.”

Another slow blink, this time accompanied by just a peek at his dark pink tongue. Then he leans closer to me across the table and purrs, “But I think I need an internal dose of some kind.”

Fucker! I feel like a fucking teenager, trying to deal with popping a boner every time some hot guy flirts with me a little.

“Do you think you can think of something to help?”

I stand up, grab him by the wrist and push him before me out the door. He’s laughing his ass off as my cock jabs his ass through his overcoat, but he waves down a cab and we head back to the fucking hotel. 

By the time we get there (it’s all of three blocks), I’ve had my revenge because after a few whispered suggestions about just how I think I can help warm him up from the inside he’s as hot and bothered as I am, and we practically shove people aside to get to the elevator and up to our floor.


	20. Reverberations #20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Okay, here it is ... the final chapter of my S5 re-write._
> 
>  
> 
> _I originally started it as a prequel to my post S5 fic _Homecoming_ and I'll be posting that here in the next few days. _
> 
>  
> 
> _So if this ending seems like a bit of a downer, remember there's that coming up._

Justin

After what, even by our standards, is a pretty spectacular fuck, the rest of Sunday is actually fairly quiet. We debate going out again for dinner, but I know Brian wants to do some preparation for his meeting with Leo Brown, and after the last few days I have so many images in my head crying for attention that I feel like I’ll burst a blood vessel if I don’t start getting some of them down. So in the end we just order room service and have a quiet but productive evening.

I didn’t bring my laptop, but Brian has print outs of everything he needs so he tells me to use his. The graphics package isn’t as good as my stuff, but it will do for a start, so I download the photos I’ve taken here in Chicago and start going through them to assess what’s there that I can use.

There are so many images are jostling together through my mind - the searing blast of light that was the bombing; the jagged blacks and reds and ash grey of the aftermath; the glimmer of the candles at the vigil - fragile yet somehow indomitable; the glow of firelight on Brian’s long lean body at the house, Wicked with its black and green, good and not-so-good, twining together and merging so it’s hard to tell which is which; the restless light shimmering on the waters of the lake. But the one image which keeps leaping out at me is one of the Mies van der Rohe buildings. I can’t remember the name, but I see it in my mind, standing there tall and unrepentant in its stark and absolute honesty. I guess it’s not to everyone’s taste. Maybe most people want something less uncompromising; something which uses a degree of artifice to offer at least an illusion of softness, of comfort. The van der Rohe building doesn’t do that. It just says, “Here I am; this is what I am. Deal.”

Kind of like Brian.

And that’s what I want to capture - the way the building reflects the man’s spirit in its stark refusal to compromise.

Maybe that’s when I first start thinking about the real implications of what we’re planning to do. I’m not sure.

I do know that when my Mom calls, although I talk to her about the house, I don’t mention Brian’s proposal. I don’t mention it to Debbie either, when Brian asks me to call her for an update on Michael.

We both talk to her, and I tell her what a great time I’m having and how good I’m feeling, but I don’t say anything really about Brian and I. Just reassure her when she demands to know (of course, like she has a right to ask) if he’s looking after me. Like I’m a fucking five year old. Or some fragile little pansy who’d let him kick my ass as soon as she wasn’t around to keep an eye on him.

Both Linds and Mel ask more or less the same thing when Brian calls them to check on Gus. Mel directly, Linds in that sweet-sly WASPish way, all sugar candy concern. . Jesus! Do these people have any idea how fucking patronizing they are? Even my mother treats me with more respect, more trust in my ability to make the right choices for me.

So I don’t tell them anything either.

Brian and I both work for a while, and share a meal together, and then we talk a little. Brian tells me how much the down payment on the house will be, and that if the insurance money doesn’t come through quickly, he’ll either have to sell off some of his investment portfolio, or re-mortgage the loft. 

I carefully don’t ask what he’ll do about Babylon if he uses the insurance money for the house. I know what a huge fucking can of worms it would open.

Ted calls Babylon Brian’s playground, and of course it is. But it’s more than that. It’s his safe place, his haven, the place he runs to when all the pressures of the outside world get too much; including the pressure that’s still a reality for all of us, that comes from being gay in a straight world where many people hate us just for existing.

Now that hatred has torn his safe place apart, and Brian has yet to deal with that, really. And I am so not going to force him to tonight.

To my surprise though, he gives a huge sigh and then sucks his lips in for a moment and says, “So … everyone else will have their two cents to say - what do you think? Should I sell the place now for whatever I can get for a heap of rubble, or should I say a big ‘fuck you’ to the bastards and rebuild bigger than ever - and hope people want to come dance in a fucking morgue?”

I take my time answering that one. I could give him some chickenshit answer about he should do what he wants, but he’s paid me the respect of asking me, I should at least pay him equal respect with a real answer.

Finally I say slowly, “I think if you re-open it should be different.”

***

Brian

His nose crinkles up the way it does when he’s thinking (and I do not fucking find it endearing or any of that shit).

“I mean …,” he starts, and then breaks off and tries again to explain what’s going on in his head, “I don’t mean what it is should be different, or what goes on inside … I mean it should _look_ different. Not …”

He shakes his head this time, impatient with his inability to find the right words and I try to help out with “Change of image, you mean?”

He gives a bizarre sort of wriggly shrug, and then shakes his head slowly. “Not exactly … I mean it should _claim_ more.”

I sit and stare at him, trying to work out exactly what he’s saying.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he grabs a sketch book and with a few lines shows me exactly what he means. The first sketch looks like the outside of the old Babylon - kind of seedy and down at heel, and somehow, beneath the bravado of its gaudy neon signage, more than a little shamefaced - as if it would prefer to huddle in the alley way and not be seen by anyone except the men who frequent its bars and backroom.

The next shows a sleek elegant building with a confident “I’m here, deal!” air; a building that proudly claims its space on the street. A building that isn’t going to be pushed out of sight into the back alleys by anyone’s disapproval.

Aside from being fucking amazed as usual that he can show all that in just a couple of quick sketches, a few black lines on a page, I’m blown away by what he’s come up with. 

Because he’s abso-fucking-lutely right. 

If I do decide to rebuild, damned right this is what it should be. Not a recreation of the old Babylon, a seedy old shed of a place that becomes virtually invisible in the daylight when the lights aren’t on and there’s no queue of hot guys waiting to get inside so all the nice people can pretend it’s not there. This is what I want to build - a beautifully presented building that claims its share of the street, of the city, proudly. A building no one can ignore.

I nod slowly and smile at him. “My own little genius,” I say proudly.

He huffs. “Not so fucking little,” he boasts.

I grin and acknowledge the comment by sliding into his chair with him and groping his cock through the soft material of his sweats.

He’s right about that too. Not so fucking little at all.

***

Justin

What starts out as a casual grope develops very nicely into one of Brian’s stellar blow jobs and just when he’s fisting the base of my cock while his mouth and tongue are doing wicked things to the head and I think it can’t get any better, it does.

Because he pulls away to find lube and a condom; then he rolls the condom down my dick and then his pants are off and he’s straddling me on this dumb chair and he lowers himself onto my cock and fuck!

He doesn’t do this. I mean I top him sometimes, sure. But he doesn’t ride me like this.

But he is and fuck! Just … fuck!

Watching him pleasuring himself (and me!) on my cock has to be the hottest thing ever; his beautiful faced flushed, the veins on his neck standing out, the muscles tensed and taut … it’s too much. I wonder if it’s like this for him, if watching me ride him is anything like as hot as this. Then I stop wondering, stop thinking at all.

The whole Babylon discussion gets shelved after that, along with everything else.

It’s only later, lying together in bed on the verge of sleep that he says into the back of my neck, “I guess if I rebuild it that way and then sell for a shitload of money I can give the big ‘fuck you’ to everyone.”

And then he’s asleep and not long after so am I.

For once it’s not a nightmare that wakes me in the middle of the night. It’s an amazingly beautiful dream where Brian and I are dancing together effortlessly - so in synch that the most complex steps just flow into each other, and so remote from everyone else’s bullshit that it’s like we’re the only two people on the dance floor.

Unlike most dreams, this one stays with me after I wake up. Not just the feeling, or a few fleeting images, but the whole thing. For a while I lie there thinking about how the dance is a perfect analogy for how good Brian and I can be together when it’s just us and we don’t over think things or let anyone else’s bullshit get in the way, we just do it.

It’s only after about ten minutes of drifting along with those thoughts floating vaguely through my mind while my body lies warm and relaxed under Brian’s arm that I realize that I’ve just remembered my Prom. Remembered the dance, at least, which was the heart of that night - well, until Chris Hobbs’ bat battered its way into the core of it all, into the core of my being - and Brian’s.

I’m surprised that it’s not more of a shock, more of … something. But honestly, it just feels like “oh, yeah, I remember, “ and then I go back to thinking about how we can keep dancing the way we have the last few days, when it’s all seemed so effortless.

Eventually I fall asleep again, thinking that I’ll tell Brian sometime, but probably not in the morning, because he’s got a big meeting and he so doesn’t need to have to think about all that shit beforehand. 

***

Brian

I get to Leo’s offices early - too early. Cynthia, who’s done a lot of the creative work on the Brown account, is coming in on an early flight for the meeting so I decide to get a cup of coffee in a place across the street and wait for her.

Sitting sipping my coffee, I have time to think. Probably too much fucking time. Because all the thoughts I’d been deliberately pushing out of my mind for the last few days, ever since I decided that the time had finally come to either get over all my chickenshit phobias about being in a damned relationship and for once be the one that moves things forward (instead of making Justin drag me, kicking and screaming like a damned tranny on heat to where it turns out I wanted to be all along), all those thoughts now come crowding in.

Not the ones about feeling trapped, or tied down or any of that shit. Maybe I’ve finally gotten over all that pathetic bullshit. But marriage - that’s a whole other thing.

But I didn’t know any other way to do it, to show him - and every other fucker that is going to shove their two cents in - that I mean it. That I want this. I want him. I want a fucking life with him. And … I had to make sure not just that he knows it, but that everyone else knows it too.

Which makes it ironic, I guess, that despite the fact that it’s been two fucking days since we “got engaged”, neither of us has told any of the gang back home anything about it.

I wonder what that means.

Maybe he just wants to see their faces. Wouldn’t blame him for that.

For myself … I want him. I do. I want a life with him. I even want that fucking house to live it in.

I just …

I don’t want them all over it.

I know how this is fucking going to go. The first time I fuck up …

They’ll make me feel like shit. And I’ll kick back against that and behave like a total twat they way I do when I’m pushed and …

It’s a fucking disaster waiting to happen. 

But he wants this. Marriage, a home, all of it. He deserves it. 

Which means my choices are to make him go without something that he wants and deserves, or fucking stand aside and let some other asshole give it to him.

Well, fuck that!

This time I get to be the one who actually gives him what he wants, what he deserves. That’s my payoff. And I want to. I do. If it was just us …

I pull myself back from those thoughts. I have to.

For one thing, it’s too fucking late now. I’ve committed to this, and I’m going to go through with it. No dicking around trying to second guess myself. It’s too late for that now, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

And anyway, there’s no time to think about it now. Cyn’s cab is pulling up and we have to prepare for this meeting.

***

Justin

After Brian leaves, I spend some time trying to capture the play of light on the lake. It’s almost impossible - in the end, I just take some film footage on my camera. That comes out fairly well and at least gives me something I can take home and work with. Along with my memories of this trip, of course.

There’s a real irony somewhere that once upon a time, Brian making a trip to Chicago to meet with Brown Athletics torpedoed my dream of a romantic trip away with him, and this time round …

The last few days have been just amazing. Not because of the great sex (and there’s been lots of that) or all the other things we’ve done - like Wicked, and the boat trip - but just because we’ve been pretty much on the same page, not pulling in different directions - or me pulling and Brian resisting, or him pushing and me trying to resist. I mean, we’ve had differences of opinion - about the house, for a start. I still think it’s too big, but Brian’s got his heart set on it for some dumb reason. 

But the thing is that we’ve talked about things and he’s asked for my input and taken my opinions seriously. I mean, I know he should. I’m his fucking partner after all - but it’s not an easy pattern for Brian to break - being the one in control of his life, the only one whose opinions count. Of course, other people’s opinions have always counted with Brian - sometimes a lot more than they should. But for him, that’s all the more reason not to look as if he’s taking any notice of them. If that makes sense. 

So much of what he does is to protect himself from all the hurtful things that are said about him - often to his face. Like people honestly don’t think he has any feelings to be hurt. I hate that. I never know how to react when someone just flat out calls him an asshole just because he doesn’t behave the way they think he should.

It’s like that fucking dinner party at Mikey’s. 

The deal was that if we’d have dinner with Michael and Ben in their new little nest, Michael would come to the Superheroes night Brian arranged (for Michael!) at Babylon. Brian just wanted to hang one night with his ‘best friend’ like they used to. But of course after subjecting us to that fiasco of a dinner party, Michael not only welched on the deal by not turning up at Babylon, but didn’t even call Brian to let him know he couldn’t make it. I mean, I know he was in the middle of the thing about JR but surely he could have swapped a night with Mel or Linds - or not made the agreement at all if he knew it was his night with the baby.

But I’m somehow not supposed to get into it with Mikey over that. I’m supposed to think all that’s okay, because it’s not like Brian was looking forward to it, or that he’d gone to any trouble setting up the whole superheroes night in the first place, right? Because Brian doesn’t have feelings so feeling disappointed and let down as well as betrayed - that’s not going to happen is it?

No, according to the Mikey version (which too many of them just accept and buy into) Brian was the asshole because when those fucking neighbors of Michael’s turned their prissy little noses up at him he didn’t just roll over and take it. Not Michael, who instead of defending his ‘best friend’ and telling those guys that they were the assholes, and to take the sticks out of their asses, joined in the attack and went off on Brian.

That’s the sort of shit he always cops from Michael, and from Mel, and a lot of the time from Lindsay and Deb as well and it really pisses me off.

No wonder he does his best never to let on that he listens to anyone’s opinions on what he should do.

At least things are better with Ted and Emmett now than they used to be.

I mean - Em never really did join in the “Brian is an asshole” chorus. And Ted doesn’t either now. It’s like they really have become Brian’s friends over the last year or so, rather than Michael’s.

Which isn’t really surprising because all the crap that Michael’s been saying about how pathetic it is for Brian to still want to hang out at Babylon applies to both of them as well. So I think they’re both more than a little pissed off with Michael’s sudden transformation into a prissy self-righteous little prick.

Part of me really wants to get in dear little Mikey’s face about Brian and I getting married. I wish he wasn’t in hospital so I could wave the wedding rings at him and describe our tuxes and make him listen to every fucking detail of the wedding plans.

Part of me really dreads it - because he’s just going to be watching and waiting and the first time either of us steps out of line, he’s going to make sure the whole world knows about it.

He would love to be the first to tell me that Brian’s still fucking around.

And even more he’d love to tell Brian that about me.

Just like he did before.

Which makes me start thinking … will Brian still fuck around? Will I? I mean, I don’t trick as much as Brian … especially since the little STD problem I had … but … that doesn’t mean that I necessarily don’t ever want to again. I mean, not want to so much but … it might happen. It probably will. I don’t want to feel like total shit just because I see some guy and let him suck me off on a boring afternoon or something. I mean, if I spot some hot guy at a gallery or something - like that day way back at the beginning when I was with my Mom and there was that guy with the dirty blond hair. I mean it was nothing … even then it didn’t have any relation to how I felt about Brian. Neither did the guys out in LA. They were just time fillers.

Not to mention that I don’t want Brian to feel like he’s in some sort of virtual chastity belt because he thinks I expect him to be pure and chaste or some shit. I know, really know, that it means absolutely dick to Brian. Telling him he can never fuck the shit out of some stranger again would be the same as telling him he has to stop drinking coffee. All it would do is make him antsy and up his stress level (and probably make him want to do it even more into the bargain). There really isn’t any more to it for Brian than that, and if it’s something that relieves his stress and gives him a lift … then why should it be a big deal? 

Except it will be for Mikey. And the others. And not only will they give Brian shit about it, they’ll try to make me feel like some pathetic idiot for putting up with it. When it’s not about that. It’s about us not having the same sort of bullshit ideas about being ‘faithful’ that they do. I mean, I guess Mikey and Ben are … probably. But Linds and Mel - they’ve nearly split up twice because both of them have had sex with someone else. And not some big affair either - just sex. I don’t want that ever to happen to Brian and I. I mean, that’s crazy. It’s just not that important.

Except that it will become that important if we let it.

So … I guess Brian and I need to talk about this stuff.

I mean - maybe we need to have our own definition of what our marriage should be like. Write our own vows, so everyone gets to hear exactly what we do promise each other … and what we don’t.

Not that that will help, really. They’ll hear what they want to hear.

It’s that fucking word: marriage.

If only …

***

Brian

The rest of the day, to say the least, doesn’t go the way I expected.

To begin with, the meeting with Brown’s team, instead of taking all day, is wrapped up by lunch time. Cynthia is even more delighted than I am that the Brown Athletics team is more than happy with just about all the ideas put on the table, with only a few minor amendments but she plays it very cool as if she’d expected no less. Which makes me sure that I’m making the right move.

When it’s clear that Brown’s people are ecstatic with what Cynthia had come up with, I break the news that she was the main brains behind it, and then suggest that I’d like them to regard her as their new account executive. Once Leo is reassured that I will still be available for consultation should he require, and that I will retain personal interest in all of their campaigns, he’s delighted to welcome Cynthia in her new role. Obviously another man who appreciates the combination of brains and talent in a hot blonde package.

As agreed between us earlier, she seals the deal by inviting Leo, together with his senior marketing people, out for lunch. 

Seeing that they’re all happy with the arrangement, I take a moment to tell Cynthia to speak to Ted when she gets back about her new package (which I think she’ll be happy with - she fucking should be). And with all that out the way, I ring my own hot blond to see whether he’s got plans for lunch.

He sounds a little distracted when I speak to him, but I figure he’s just in the middle of some creative burst, so I tell him I’m free for the rest of the day, and that we should meet and go pick up the rings. Then we can have lunch.

He hesitates again and then says, “Can we eat first?”

Of course it’s nearly one, and he’s probably starving, so I shrug. Why not? I ask him where he wants to eat and he suggests coming back to the hotel for room service. At first I think it’s stupid - there are good restaurants in Chicago, why not go out and enjoy them. Then I realize that I want to go back and change anyway, and I think about how enjoyable our in-room snack was on Saturday, and think maybe he’s got the right idea.

But all that gets blown out the window when I walk into the suite and find him sitting at the table holding our ring boxes and staring at them as if he has no fucking idea what to do with them.

He looks up when I walk in and at the look on his face without a word spoken I find myself searching around inside for the fragments of my fucking defenses so I can get them into place before he opens his mouth. He must see, must realize, because he drops the fucking boxes and comes to me quickly, saying urgently, “Brian, don’t … don’t do that. We have to talk about this.”

I shake my head. What the fuck is there to talk about? I asked him to fucking marry me, and he said ‘yes’. What the fuck else can he fucking want from me?

“I love you,” he says. Oh, fucking great. So it’s going to be one of those, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ things is it? Well fuck that!

But before I can say anything, before I can open my mouth to blast everything I thought I’d finally found with him into fucking smithereens, he says, “I love you, and I’m planning on spending the rest of my life with you and there isn’t anything that is going to change that.”

Which doesn’t make any sense to me at all, but his hands are around my neck now and he’s making me look at him and he’s smiling up at me, and he says again, “I love you, you fuckwit. Alright?”

I try to suck my lips in so that they can’t reward that shit with any sort of smile, but they slide away from my control and I feel the grin escape before I can do anything about it. He sees it too, because his smile gets wider and then he presses up against me and kisses me. “I love you,” he repeats.

And it’s fucking ridiculous that some cheap overused … slogan … makes me feel better, but it fucking does. 

I let myself smile at him for a moment, and then I pull away to walk over and open one of the ring boxes. 

“You picked them up then?”

He sighs and nods. “Yeah, I … I was almost going to leave them there, but I mean … they’d been resized and everything so …”

The silence that follows that falls heavy with implications and across the room our eyes meet. 

“I don’t want to get married,” he says.

***

Justin

I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. I thought I’d have all day to work out what I was going to say to him. But then he rang just as I was leaving the jewelers and …

I go to him and take his hand and hold it tightly so he can’t snatch it away and walk off. I need to try to find the words to explain, to make him understand, and I’m not sure that there are any. Finally I sit down at the table, and after a moment, he does too.

“I love you,” I say again, still clasping his hand.

He gives one of those sarcastic little snorts of his and I realize how close he must be to just shutting down like he does when he’s afraid of being hurt and the panic seems to finally kick my brain into gear.

“Brian, we never talked about what we mean by being “married”,” I start.

He gives a sort of shrug, but his eyes are on mine and so far at least he’s with me, he’s not about to shove me or himself of some fucking cliff just because he’s scared of what I’m going to say. That’s a start anyway. Actually, that’s fucking huge.

I pull his hand to my lips and kiss it, and he gives me a strange look, sort of ‘get on with it’ coupled with something that’s almost like a blush. I kiss his fingers again and then say, “I love you, and I want to be with you. On our terms. The way we want it to be.”

He nods, shrugs, a little irritably, as if to say ‘of course’. But it’s not ‘of course’. It’s nothing of the kind once you start throwing around that ‘married’ word.

I take another breath and go on, “For me, what I want out of us being together, is to know that we both want a future together, that we both plan on being together for a long time, and that we talk about things that affect that future and make decisions about them together.”

He shrugs again; this is getting into the sort of stuff that he really hates talking about, hates putting into words. Tough shit. Just this once, I have to, and he’s going to have to listen.

“I kind of hope that we’d both cut back on the tricking,” I add. He looks up at that, eyes suddenly intent, “but I don’t want that to be a big deal, either.”

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and then says, in that sarcastic drawl he’s perfected for these sorts of conversations, “But, Sunshine, I thought that being “faithful” was the whole point.”

Once that tone would have flattened me, it would have forced me to silence because I was so afraid of what came after. Not any more.

“No,” I shake my head. “No. That’s … that’s what I’m afraid of. That if we get married, then something so … so meaningless becomes a big fucking deal.”

He shrugs again. “So, we decide it’s not going to be. We decide to be real trendy and have an ‘open marriage’.”

Again the tone; even his fingers, making little pincher movements to signify the quotation marks, seem to have it. 

“But it’s not just us, is it?” I ask.

“I’m not planning on polygamy,” he snarks.

I sigh and eyeball him.

“Brian, once we announce that we’re getting married, everyone and his dog are going to think that they’ve got the right to tell both of us where we can put our dicks - and where we can’t.”

He gets up then and heads for the minibar, but to my surprise, he just gets some water.

“So we don’t get married because we’re afraid of what everyone will say?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“No, we don’t get married, because once people hear that word they think they know us, they think they know how things should be between us, they fucking think they have a right to judge us if we don’t live the way they think we should, and I don’t want to have to deal with all their bullshit while they’re finding out how wrong they fucking are.”

I pause for a moment and then say, “Do you?”

***

Brian

I sit and take a sip of the water, trying to get my head around what he’s saying.

Is he saying he doesn’t think I’d be able to cut it as a husband? Well, I know a few who’d fucking agree with that.

Or is he saying that he doesn’t want to be tied down? Don’t blame him for that. He shouldn’t be. Not at his age. Except … Except …

“Brian, I’m not saying that I don’t want to be with you, I’m not saying that I don’t want ‘forever’ with you. I’m saying that I want it to be on our terms - not anyone else’s.

“I didn’t fall in love with some damned Stepford fag. I don’t want to have to deal with you trying to be what everyone else thinks I want, or should want. I want you. If sometimes that means I don’t get every fucking thing I think I want, or anyone else thinks I should want from you … well, that’s just too fucking bad. Just like it is if you don’t get every single thing you think or they think you should get from me. When all the crap settles … it’s you I want. You I want to be with. Not some stupid fucking idea of how things maybe could be in some ideal world that I’d probably get bored with in a month … in a week even.”

Now that makes sense to me. 

I take another sip of water and realize that he’s saying some of the things that I’ve been trying not to think about ever since this fucking “marriage” idea hit me. I’d be a total fucking liar if I said that I hadn’t had more than a few moments of fear over what would happen when I fucked up by not being able to keep it in my pants. And not so much fear of his reaction, but … I could hear the whole fucking chorus of them now, telling me what a stupid fucking asshole I am. I don’t want to be. But I’m no fucking saint, and …

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he brings up a topic that he’s always steered clear of, one that has always been subtly off limits.

“You know what pissed me off about the thing with Ethan?” he says, and I have to fight not to just get up and walk away. Except part of me wants to hear this, part of me has always wondered why he was prepared to walk away from Ethan over one stupid fuck and then come to me and tell me he didn’t expect me to stop tricking. I have my own ideas on what might have been going on in his head, but I have to admit to being curious to see if I got it right. He surprises me though. 

“It wasn’t that he fucked someone else,” he says calmly. “It wasn’t even that he lied about fucking someone else. It was that for months I’d been fucking pretending that I didn’t want to.”

***

Justin

He looks stunned for a moment and then he laughs - a deep belly laugh. His eyes lose their wary look; they soften for a moment, and then start to glow with heat, and I know that he’s heard me.

But I can’t let him derail me. We have to get this settled now, right now. Or else he’s going to wonder about it and over think it and it will fester and then he’ll do some stupid fucking thing just to show me that he never really did mean the whole marriage thing at all. Dickhead!

I go to him and push the table back far enough so that I can straddle his lap. He sucks his lips in for a moment and I nuzzle at his face till his arms come round me.

“I don’t want them all over us,” I tell him. “I don’t want to have to try to either live out what other people’s idea of ‘marriage’ is or have to deal with all their bullshit when we don’t have the sort of relationship that they think ‘marriage’ should be.”

I let my forehead rest against his.

“I just want it to be us,” I say. “As long as we’re together, and we’re clear with each other that we plan to stay that way, that’s all I want - all I need.”

He looks down for a moment, then slowly back up at me so I have to pull back a little or go seriously cross-eyed. To my relief, his eyes shine burnished greeny-brown, not the slatey color they go when he’s upset. He holds the look for a moment, his lips pulled in. Then his slow grin slides out and he leans towards me a little.

“And you couldn’t have thought of all this before we got the rings?” he asks, his voice soft, his lips almost brushing mine.

I kiss him quickly. “Well, maybe some day we can just sort of sneak them on without anyone noticing,” I tell him.

He laughs, like I hoped he would.

Then his eyes cloud a little, and he turns his head away, reaching for the water - but I know that’s just an excuse.

I don’t say anything, though, just stroke the hair at the nape of his neck.

After a moment he says, “So we do it “our way”, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We don’t let anyone else tell us what they think we should have - we just have it all.”

That brings a grin and he turns his eyes back to me. I feel him move beneath me, bringing our groins into closer contact, and I smile.

“I’m thinking that once we buy that house we really should have a fucking big housewarming party,” he says.

“If we buy that house,” I say.

He grins. “When,” he says.

And that’s when I know that he’s okay with this. He understands what I’m saying and he agrees with me. Or at least, he knows that I’m right to be afraid of the power that they all have to say things that not only piss us both off, but that hurt too. I hate it when they call him an asshole, make everything his fault, like I’m some kind of retarded angel. Like I never do anything wrong and I’m just too fucking stupid to stand up for myself. And most of all I hate that I hardly ever get to be really mad at him, because they all do it for me, and they go so far over the top, that I’m the one that has to reel it back in.

But right now that’s not important. Right at this minute I’m so relieved that he’s okay with what has happened today that I let him get away with the whole ‘when’ thing. If buying the house makes sure that he knows that all the rest of the “death do us part” thing is still on - just not the fucking ceremony, the words - then I can live with that damned palace of his.

And with some damned huge-assed housewarming party that he wants to give just to shove everyone’s faces in the fact that we’re together and we’re planning on making that a permanent condition. Well, okay, maybe I kind of like that idea; maybe even like it a lot.

In fact, I put forward an idea of my own.

“I was thinking,” I say, pulling on his tie to loosen it so I can get it over his head.

“Mmm … I gathered that,” he answers, shrugging out of his suit jacket.

I give his side a little pinch as I start undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“If we had been going to get married, we would have had to have some sort of engagement dinner.”

“Would we?” he asks, pulling my sweater off.

“Uh-huh. Definitely,” I assure him, sliding the shirt down off his shoulders and bending to lick his neck.

“So?” he asks, pushing up my tee-shirt so he can nip and suck at my nipples.

“So maybe we should have a … a housewarming announcement dinner,” I say, sliding my hands down to fumble with his belt.

“A what?” he asks, distracted from the important task of getting my pants undone.

“Well, a dinner to celebrate us buying the house,” I clarify, struggling to my feet so that I can get rid of his pants and my own. Then I kneel between his legs and look up at him.

“Celebrate us,” I tell him. And his eyes meet mine, and we smile at each other and I know everything is alright again between us because once again we’re absolutely on the same page.

Then I can’t talk at all for a while, because I have other, far more pleasurable things to do with my mouth.

And he seems to have run out of words except “Fuck!” and “Yes!” and “Justin!” and a few things like that.

But that’s okay. Sometimes words are over-rated. And sometimes we give them too much power. 

It’s how you live that counts; not what you call it.

***

Brian

I wonder how many couples decide on Saturday morning to get married and call off the wedding by Monday afternoon?

And somehow come out of the whole fiasco stronger than they were going in?

We use room service to re-fuel and then take it to the bed for a while. But after that, after cementing our new status as … housemates, live in lovers, whatever … after the heat and urgency, the panting and moaning and sweat, we lie together and talk.

Fuck! I really am turning into a lesbian.

But it doesn’t feel like that. For once, talking about how I feel, how he feels, what I want, what he wants, all that shit … for once it doesn’t start the fucking ants running up and down my spine, for once it doesn’t feel overwhelming or threatening or any of that shit. It feels like relief, like safety, like maybe I’m finally in a place, feels like finally I’m with someone who won’t take everything I say and use it to hurt me, or manipulate me. Like finally I’m with someone I can trust.

So we talk and we hammer out the shit about what we want, of who we want to be, how we want to be together.

For me … it’s pretty simple. I want him. And I’m ready to do whatever he needs, be whoever he needs me to be to make that happen.

But he tells me that’s bullshit. That it’s not what he wants. That he wants me - warts and all. And he’ll fucking deal with the rest. When I try to say that I don’t want him to have to “deal”, he actually laughs. Little fucker.

Then he tells me that’s part of it. Part of what makes him want me, want to be with me; part of what takes his breath away and makes his cock swell and gets him all hot and bothered. He says he feels like that about me because I’m not easy; because I’m not like Ben or Mikey, or, Heaven help us, Ted. He says that if I turned myself into some sort of Stepford fag I wouldn’t be the one he wants to be with, the one he … loves.

I hear what he’s saying, but I can’t help wondering. I mean, I feel like he’s being cheated of something if I can’t give him … I don’t know … monogamy or some shit. Maybe not now, but someday he’s going to want that … I think … I’m afraid that … if I don’t, can’t … give him that … then he’ll start looking around for someone who can. But he’s telling me I shouldn’t change, that he doesn’t want me to change. And that makes me feel …

I need to be able to give him what he wants, what he deserves. I need to feel that I can do that, that I can change, without him thinking I’ve turned into something else, someone else … that he doesn’t want anymore. Isn’t that fucked? I’m not sure I’m ready to stop tricking, I’m not sure I ever will be … but I don’t want him not to want me to. Or something.

But when I try to explain that, he gives a little giggle and nudges me. He tells me it’s not about whether or not I stop tricking, it’s about why. That if ever I decide I’ve had enough, then that’s fine. But if I stop because of what someone else thinks about it, then that’s when I stop being really me; that’s when I become less real, when I’d lose integrity. And so would he if he didn’t call me on it.

He nuzzles my arm where it lies round his shoulder and down across his chest and says he knows that no matter what anyone else thinks, that he’s not easy either. I grunt a sort of “No shit” when he says that and he laughs. So do I. 

He’s right, of course, that’s why we’re such a good match. Because we don’t just coast - neither of us. Part of what makes us work is that we challenge each other, and that we never settle for being less than we are. That might make us not as easy to live with as someone who just lets everything drift, but it the drive to keep moving, keep getting better, that makes things at lot more … interesting.

At least … that’s true for him; at least I hope it is. For me … I’m not sure. I think for a long time before he came I was coasting, in a way. But I didn’t know it then. I thought that being cock of the walk was what it was all about; all I was about; and that it was enough. Now it’s not; I want more now. He’s made me want more. And to want to be more.

He has challenged me; and I know I challenge him as well. We’ve both fucking “grown” through being together, much as it shits me to even think that.

But hearing him say this stuff, it gives me some sort of … validation, I guess … that I’ve never had before. Not from anyone else. Because what he’s saying is that he doesn’t just love me despite my faults - in some ways he loves me because of them, because they’re a part of what makes me who I am. And that … That makes me feel … I … loved … or some shit like that.

And the thing is I fucking I believe him. I believe him because I understand what he means. I don’t love him despite the fact that he can be the most demanding, irrational, pig-headed son of a bitch that ever pulled on pants - that’s part of what I love about him. He drives me crazy sometimes when he goes off on one of his fucking tangents like that stupid assed pink posse shit … but it’s also what makes him Justin. It’s part of what fucking gives me a thrill when he turns and looks at me across a room and all the other stupid fucks just disappear for a moment and he’s the only thing there that’s real.

Then I wonder if it’s just the “old” me that gives him that thrill. That would be fucking ironic, wouldn’t it? That when I want to start to change some stuff, it turns out that’s the stuff he doesn’t want me to change?

But he must see that I’m, I don’t know, anxious or some shit about that.

Because he slides a leg across mine and says, “Brian … if you think the fact that you like to shove your cock occasionally into a hole that doesn’t belong to me is the only thing that makes you a challenge you are seriously deluded.”

There’s a laugh in his voice but there’s truth too, and I relax a little. Guess he’s fucking right about that. Little shit.

“I need to know you won’t try to change into something you don’t really want to be just because you think it’s what I want, or who you should be for me,” he says.

I give a little nod; then, when he puts his hand on my face, I look into his eyes, and whisper, “Okay.”

But I need a promise from him too.

If he’s afraid that I’ll try to morph into some sort of Ben clone, I’m even more afraid that he’ll turn his back on things that he wants to do, chances he wants to take, just because he’s worried about how it will affect me … affect us. 

I try to explain that to him, to tell him that it’s my one big fear about this commitment thing, that it might make him turn down some opportunity, some challenge to keep things the same with us. That would gut me. That would be the thing I don’t think I’d ever recover from. I try to tell him that. That if he turned something down because it wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t the right thing for him, then that’s okay. But if he ever turned down something that really was what he wanted to do, needed to experience, because of me then … that’s just crap. It would leave me feeling like shit.

He says that he can’t imagine any opportunity that would be right for him if it took him away from me, from us, but I tell him that’s bullshit. He doesn’t know. There could be something, and if something came up, then I’d want him to take it. Because otherwise he’s the one who’s not being real. 

He presses closer to me then, or maybe I pull him closer. I don’t know. I can feel some fucking sort of moisture on my chest, so I tell him we’ll deal. If something comes along we’ll fucking find a way to deal. He nods, but doesn’t say anything. Not good enough.

I have to be sure about this. I have to be able to trust him to do this. I take hold of his chin and make him look at me, but I can’t find the words to ask. I raise an eyebrow at him, and after a wobbly moment he nods, “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

I kiss him and then he settles back down onto my chest and we talk about some other stuff. Some of it just … stuff … everyday sort of shit like what time our flight is tomorrow and whether we should drop in and see Gus on the way home. But we talk about other stuff, too. Things that I never thought I’d talk about with anyone, things that I never thought I’d say. 

But somehow, by the time we’re finally talked out and his stomach is rumbling and we’re ready to move out of this bed - for a while at least - I feel like … like this is what marriage fucking is. That no matter what anyone else thinks or believes, Justin and I are as married as any fucking hetero couple who stand up in a church and swear their vows; as married as Mikey and Ben, or Linds and Mel; and a hell of a lot more fucking married than some pair of drunken losers getting hitched in some hokey chapel in Vegas.

***

Justin 

It feels like we lie there talking for hours. I guess we do. But I mean it really feels like … like forever. Like we’re in some sort of … time outside time … I don’t know. I only know this might be the most important time I’ve ever spent with Brian … maybe the most important time we’ll ever spend together. Because for the first time really we let all the bullshit go and talk about what we want from each other and from our relationship.

I’m shocked when he tells me he’s ready to change, to become whatever I need him to be. And I feel … it doesn’t feel good. It feels like I’ve somehow led him to think that I don’t want him. And he’s all I’ve ever wanted. 

I try to explain that I don’t want him to be some sort of … I don’t know … Gay as Blazes character … I just want him … prissy, sarcastic, vain, insecure asshole that he can be. That’s all part of what makes him Brian and I wouldn’t trade off any of that to have someone who’s easier to live with, because they wouldn’t be him.

He gets a little bit weird at one point, like he thinks I’m saying that if he changes I won’t love him any more.

So I try to get it through to him that it’s not about whether he changes - it’s about why. I mean, of course he’s going to change … we both are. We can’t be afraid of that. And I’m not … we’ve already changed a hell of a lot and it’s only brought us closer. Because we’ve changed at our own pace, in our own way. The only things that forced the pace were external things - my Dad throwing me out of home, Gus, me getting hurt, him getting cancer … we changed in response to those because we had to … and it’s made us both grow up a lot. So if he suddenly turns into someone who likes to hang around that huge fucking mansion he wants to buy instead of clubbing every night of the week, then that’s okay. He’ll still be as snarky as hell about all our friends and still give Emmett shit about his clothes and Ted shit about everything and still be Brian. But if he made himself stay home because he thought that’s what I wanted … then he wouldn’t be Brian any more. It makes sense to me, anyway, and it must to him too because he relaxes a lot after that.

All of which really makes me realize how rare a thing it must be for him to hear that. To hear someone say that they love him - not despite the fact that he's difficult, but because of it. To just love him unconditionally without judging him all the time. I promise myself that I'll try to give him that more often. Try to make sure that he always knows it. I mean, there are going to be times when I'm pissed off with him, that we're angry with each other. But I have to make sure that when he does something that pisses me off, that I focus on what he's done, not turn it into yet another 'you're an asshole' session. Because he must have heard that, or something even worse, just about all his life. And he isn't. No more than most people. He just doesn't hide behind a facade of niceness most of the time like other people do.

It’s his turn then to get heavy. He sort of makes me promise that if there’s some great big opportunity comes knocking then I won’t turn it down just because of him.

I want to tell him that that’s just shit, but he isn’t having any of it. It’s important to him, so I agree. It’s not like I think that the world is going to be beating on my door any time soon. I figure that the LA thing was … not my chance, exactly, but really, you know, like a once in a lifetime thing and look what happened there. I am never going to be that fucking stupid again. I get a bit … emotional during all that, but aside from saying that at a fucking five star hotel there shouldn’t be anything to set off my allergies, he doesn’t get rattled by that, just holds me a bit tighter as I press close up against him.

Then we talk about a whole bunch of stuff. I’ve never known him so … I don’t know … open.

I guess, at first at least, that I do most of the talking, and he just grunts or makes those Brian-faces, and comes out with a few words here and there … but it’s enough. I know it is, because he’s right there with me … I might be doing most of the talking, but we’re both part if the communications.

We talk a little bit about tricking … not rules or any of that stupid shit we tried last time, but … he says something about the house being a trick free zone. So I ask him, what about the pool boy, and he says that we’re not going to be able to afford a pool boy, so I’ll have to take on the job myself. He gives my ass a little squeeze and says I’d look hot in short shorts but I’d have to wear like three bottles of sunscreen if I want to go topless.

So then I try to ask him then about whether we can really afford the house. That’s tricky, because we never talk about money, but he says it should be okay. He says we should be able to make a fairly good down payment, even if the insurance money takes a while. And that once we sell the loft, that will pay off a chunk of the new mortgage and pay for furnishing the place - at least the main rooms. I can’t even begin to put into words what it means to me when he says “we” like that.

After that he says that we should see a solicitor and get some papers drawn up - insurance, and wills and things. He asks me if I’m ready to be the one who pulls the plug, and it gives me a sort of reality check that he is talking about us really being legal partners who have all these responsibilities to each other. 

By the time the light dies outside the windows and we can hardly even see each other any more despite the fact that we’re lying practically on top of each other, I feel like … like this is what marriage is. How could anyone be more married than this? I bet half the people who call themselves married have never talked to each other like this. Have never been so open and honest with each other. As far as I’m concerned, we are married. 

The rest is just words and pictures and what other people see. This is the real deal. This. Right here.

***

Brian

To be honest I’m fucking exhausted by the time we finally get out of that bed.

But at the same time I feel … like I could conquer the world.

It’s fucking amazing.

We talk about going out to get something to eat, but then somehow that turns into a discussion on where we can have our “house announcement” dinner. So instead we order more room service and start researching restaurants. I’ve got an idea of where we might go, but the first place I think of doesn’t have any private rooms, and that’s really what we want, so we take a while to pick somewhere.

I want to go to Ernie Vallozzi's because, although the food is carb loaded, it’s excellent, and they have a great wine list. But when I suggest it, Justin just stares at me.

“You want to take Deb to an Italian restaurant?” he says. “And have her talking all night about how it’s not as good as her recipe? I so don’t think so.”

I have to admit that he’s right about that, and although I fight against it, I can’t help but notice that he keeps coming back to one particular site. It’s out in the suburbs and looks like some sort of castle or something - I think it’s incredibly fucking kitsch - but I’m the guy who’s buying a fucking mansion, so what would I know? Anyway, he likes the look of it, so we put that top of the list. We add a couple of other possibles.

Then, after a bit of a debate, we call Emmett.

We don’t tell him exactly what’s going on, just ask him if he can come to the loft tomorrow night. And swear him to secrecy. Justin tries telling him that it’s all very simple, and he shouldn’t get any ideas, but … all the sort of shit that must have Honeycutt’s ears flapping and his tongue already beginning to wag. So then I take the phone and tell him that I’ll cut his fucking dick off if I get back and find everyone gossiping about what Justin and I are up to. I can hear his little head toss and he does this whole, “Darling, a party planner’s word is his bond. We have to know how to be very discreet.”

Then I say, real quiet, “Emmett, we need this to be low key. I don’t want him to have to deal with any more shit right now.”

There’s a slight pause, and then he says, “I understand, Brian. I promise, I won’t say anything to anyone.”

And by the tone in his voice I know he’s heard and understood me and that I can count on him.

Now there’s a fucking strange thought.

Before we finish the call, he asks if I’ve spoken to Deb or Michael today. Which we haven’t. We had the sense to turn all our phones off around about the time we took ourselves into the bedroom this afternoon. When I tell Emmett no, he goes very quiet. I feel something sort of squeeze my chest. 

“What the fuck’s wrong now?” I bark. “Is Mikey okay?”

“Yes, yes!” he says quickly. “It’s nothing like that. In fact,” he goes on. “It’s nothing that won’t wait till you get back.”

“Emmett,” I growl.

He sighs. “It’s Ben,” he says. “They’re talking about letting him plead to some minor charge on the grounds that he was unbearably provoked and it was totally out of character and … Deb is having fits about it and saying that he shouldn’t even have been arrested and that she thinks he should go to court and fight it and … neither Carl nor I can get through to her.”

I sigh.

***

Justin

I know that there’s something really bad going on when he pinches the bridge of his nose and says to Emmett, “I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll try and talk to her then. Just don’t let Ben do anything stupid in the meantime.”

There’s silence for a moment while he listens to Emmett and then he says, “Yeah, well, I’m counting on you.”

Another moment and then he says, very quiet, “Thanks, Emmett. We’ll see you tomorrow night. Around eight.”

Then he hangs up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then finally he looks up at me. 

“It’s Ben,” he says. “Seems like they’re trying to get him off with just a slap on the wrist, but Deb’s not having any. She thinks he should get a fucking medal or something.”

Then he says loudly, “Fuck!” and looks like he wants to throw the phone at the wall. 

“So … would he have to go to jail?” I ask. “Is that what she’s upset about?”

He sighs and shrugs. “He’d probably get community service or some shit. Like Hobbs.”

By the way he says it, I know that he thinks it’s wrong.

Brian, for all that he’s very strong, and very physical, really hates violence. I mean, he hates it. Especially when it’s someone who’s a lot bigger and stronger, punching the shit out of someone who’s smaller and weaker. Wonder why that would be?

Some people with backgrounds like Brian turn into abusers, they keep the cycle of violence going. Others do the complete opposite and really turn away from it. That’s Brian. I don’t mean that he’d ever back down from a fight. But I can’t imagine him ever deliberately physically hurting someone - especially some old guy half his size. 

There isn’t anything I can say, really, so I turn his thoughts back to happier things by asking him what he wants to do about the tuxes. Should we try to get at least a partial refund on them?

He just looks at me like I’m crazy. 

Then he laughs and shakes his head. “You’ll need one,” he tells me. “When all important galleries start calling, and you have to attend their fucking pretentious little do’s. You’ll need a decent tux.”

I nudge him. “Okay, that’s me. What’s your excuse?” I ask.

He grins and says, “I have to be your arm candy.”

***

Brian

He giggles when I say that, and that’s it.

Everything else goes out the window, and I dive on him. We haven’t fucked on the couch yet.

Fuck Ben and his troubles; fuck Deb and Mikey and all their shit.

I have this. And here and now, that’s the only fucking thing that matters.

***

Justin

We go for the final fitting of the tuxes. They’re amazing. We both look so fucking good. I hope there is some big occasion soon so that we can wear them. I guess we could wear them to the dinner, but that would be a bit over the top and sort of a waste, really.

Then we get the flight home.

It’s weird.

I mean … I feel like I should be crushed or something … 

When we left here on Saturday, we were engaged, we were about to get married. And now we’re not, and …

I feel amazing. Much better than I did then. I feel like … Like we’re really working it out, really becoming who we want to be … as a couple. And that’s not some little faux-hetero ideal. That’s us. Warts and all. He’ll go on tricking when he feels like it; and I probably will too. And that will be nothing - not even a blip.

But we’ll be together, and we’ll have a home … a real home together. Somewhere that Gus can come and stay. Somewhere our friends can come over, hang out. Somewhere I can paint, and he can work and …

Okay, maybe that’s a bit idealized, because he’ll still be at Kinnetik a lot, and I’ll have days when I hardly see him and all that stuff.

But that’s life. That’s what a real life together is.

He calls Deb practically as soon as we get off the plane, but I can tell that doesn’t go well.

So then he calls and arranges to come over and see Gus.

I assume that he’s spoken to Lindsay, but when we get there, there’s just Mel. Apparently Lindsay’s at still at work. Brian gets me to keep an eye on Gus and JR while he takes Mel aside and speaks to her, and I hear her say, “Stupid cow. If they give him that sort of deal he should take it. His lawyer must be telling him that.”

They talk a bit more and then Mel says, “Leave it with me. I’ll try to talk to her. You’ll just make it worse. She’s pretty pissed with you right now.”

He shrugs, but I can see it hurts. Why the fuck Deb is mad at Brian because her son in law went crazy and beat the hell out of someone, God knows.

Anyway, we play for a while with Gus, and then head home.

I’d forgotten to take the charger for my cell, so the battery was flat and the first thing I do is to plug it in. While I’m doing that, Brian hits the play button on the machine, and goes through the messages. 

Stuff from Sydney about what pieces sold. 

Rants from Debbie.

A call from Ben to thank Brian again for arranging the lawyer.

A call from Ted about the insurance - apparently today they finally let the insurance inspectors onto the site.

One from the police saying that they have some leads which they’re following up.

And one from Shana, the Washington Post reporter, asking if I was happy with the article.

Shit!

***

Brian

The article is … fair enough, I suppose. Personally, I’d rather not rehash all that fucking stuff, but I can see what they’re trying to do and if the end result is that bastards like Hobbs get put away instead of having their little wrists slapped and told not to be so naughty, then it will probably be worth it.

It talks about Justin’s art and takes it seriously. Doesn’t make him sound like some sort of special needs “oh, isn’t it amazing that he can do that” case. Makes him sound like a serious young artist. Even takes a swipe at those dickless wonders in Hollywood.

So I guess it’s okay.

Once we’ve skimmed through it he gets on the phone to his Mommy and tells her. Then he calls Sydney who already knows, and is very happy -naturally, since his gallery gets a mention. He asks if he should let Deb know and I just stare at him, so he calls her. She seems to give him a hard time at first but then I hear her shrieks of “Sunshine!” so that’s okay. 

I call Kinnetik to double check that Cynthia has everything under control with the Brown account, and may just happen to casually mention it to her when she asks how my day’s been. Then I talk to Ted about the insurance and tell him I may have reconsidered on the rebuilding but that we need to talk, because I’d be wanting to make some changes. And if I happen to mention that the Post article on hate crimes is something that we should take advantage of in getting good will, etc going with the council to help move any necessary building permits along, well, that’s just business.

By the time Emmett arrives at eight, our whole little circle has been calling back and forth like damned dogs baying at the moon.

He’s all excited over it as well, and I have to physically restrain him from engulfing little Sunshine in a whole series of ‘you’re such a brave little hero’ hugs.

But once he gets past that and we start in on the Thai food we’d ordered, he forgets about that and I’m taking bets with myself on how long it will be before he either fucking bursts from curiosity or comes out and asks us why we invited him over.

Before either can happen, Sunshine intervenes and puts him out of his misery.

“We want to hold a dinner,” he says. 

Emmett’s eyes bug out a bit further and he squeaks, “What sort of dinner?

“One where people sit down and eat," I snark.

Which earns me a look from the famous artiste and I shut up.

“Well,” he says. Then he looks at me … a sort of ‘what the fuck do I say?’ look that makes me come to his rescue.

“A celebration dinner,” I tell Emmett.

“Over the article?” Emmett asks, understandably confused about why we’d want to celebrate being reminded that some homophobic bastards have twice tried to kill him.

I shrug.

“Over his first show,” I say. “Over the fact that all the pieces that were for sale have sold. Over the fact that we’re all still here to celebrate it.”

Of course, that makes Emmett go a little weepy eyed. 

“So … you’ll be waiting till Michael’s out of hospital?” he says, with just enough hesitation to turn it into a question. 

I nod and Justin says, “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

Of course. Aside from anything else, Deb would make our lives not worth living for weeks if we didn’t.

“Deb says that the doctors are talking about releasing him maybe on Thursday,” Emmett puts in. “She’s really upset about it … says he’s not nearly ready.”

I sigh. Because of course she’d know better than the doctors, just like she knows better than the lawyers what Ben should do.

Justin looks at me, and I take a breath and say to Emmett, “There is one other thing we’re celebrating.”

He gets all excited and says, “You’re not!”

“No, we’re fucking not,” I tell him. He doesn’t need to know how close we came.

“But we are getting a house,” Justin says. “A beautiful house. You wait till you see it.”

Emmett squeals then, and claps his hands. “Do say you’re going to have a house-warming,” he urges.

Justin is smiling and I find myself grinning back at him. Emmett sees, and gives me a suddenly serious look. Then he fucking pats my knee.

“I’m happy for you, honey,” he says sincerely. “I really am. For both of you.”

“Thanks, Em,” Justin says. “We’ll need you to plan the housewarming, of course. But that won’t be for ages, by the time settlement goes through, and we get it furnished and stuff. So we want to have a house announcement dinner. And have photos of the house everywhere so people can get an idea what it’s like and … can you help us make that perfect?”

Some people might be able to resist Sunshine when he’s like that, but Honeycutt isn’t one of them. 

“Of course I will, sweetie,” he says. “It will be absolutely wonderful You just tell me what you want, and then leave it all to me.”

I’d like to tune out the rest of the evening, but if I did, God knows what they’d come up with. Besides, I need to make sure that Emmett gets it that Justin is going to have everything exactly the way he wants it - no matter what it costs.

***

Justin

I suppose it’s just typical of our lives that in the end our big announcement dinner isn’t just about us buying the house - it’s about me leaving for New York.

I mean … Brian finally stops being a total dick and comes to my Prom and we dance, and it’s all perfect and then - Hobbs and his baseball bat.

Brian finally asks me to move in - really asks me, not because I’m damaged, or have no where else to go, but because he wants me there - and the LA thing happens.

So of course just when we finally work out what we want and what we’re doing together - something comes along and bingo! I have to go to New York.

By the time we’re getting dressed to go to the dinner, I’m starting to really freak out. Today’s Friday … I leave on Sunday. I so don’t want to be wasting time with other people that I could be spending with Brian. But at the same time … I want them to see us together. I want everyone to have tonight to remember, to remind themselves that, no matter if I have to go away for a while, we are planning on having a life together. This is just a temporary thing. I want them all to remember so that they can remind Brian.

It’s all happened so fucking fast.

We got back from Chicago and a couple of days after that, they released Michael from the hospital. Things with Ben look like working out okay. Everyone is hopeful that when the case comes up he’ll be able to enter a plea to some minor thing and it will all sort of go away. The guy he hit seems to be recovering, so that all looks like being alright.

Everything was going really well, in fact.

Then, on the Sunday after our weekend in Chicago - last Sunday, in fact, although it seems longer ago than that - the New York Times printed a whole big review of Sydney’s show - mainly featuring my work. I mean, huge color photos, the lot - and the critic raved about it.

I remembered him, and I thought that if he wrote anything at all he’d cane me, because Brian was really rude to him when he thought he caught him checking out my ass.

But he didn’t … he … it was kind of embarrassing, really. Overwhelming.

And then two days later I got a phone call from Sydney. It was about some artists’ co-op in New York who wanted to talk to me. I called the number they’d left with Sydney, and it turns out it’s a sort of student’s studio. They take in new young artists for a year - give them studio space, encourage them to workshop together, learn from each other and organize a couple of exhibitions every year so they can get their work seen.

And they want me.

The problem is, the program starts next week and they say I need to be there by the end of the first week at the latest because they have a couple of “functions” and invite some critics and gallery owners, so they can meet the artists and see some of the ‘before’ stuff I guess - some of the work they’ve already got in their portfolios.

Like I say - the timing is for shit.

If the fucking review had come out a week later, it would have been too late, and … I wouldn’t have had to decide.

Not that there was ever really any choice. I mean, Brian didn’t say anything when I first told him and I thought he was just going to stand back and let me make my own decision. But then the next day he told me I should go, made it clear that he expected me to live up to my promise and not turn down this sort of thing because of him.

I nearly had a melt down, but he wouldn’t let me … he just told me to suck it up, that stuff happens, and we just have to deal. Then he said that it was just a fucking year - not even that - a few months, and that I wasn’t going to be on the other side of the world, or even the other side of the country. He said it wasn’t like when I was in LA and it was too far to come home for the weekend, reminded me that it’s only an hour away by plane.

It was only a day or so later that I realized that he’d been to see Gus and that both Lindsay and Mel had got into his ear about it.

I fucking hate it that they did that. Maybe if they hadn’t then …. But they did, and they convinced him that I “had” to take this opportunity. Made him feel like I’d wind up resenting him if I didn’t. All that shit.

In some ways it is the right thing for me to be doing. But in others …

The truth is that I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for the fact that I know he’d never forgive himself if I didn’t. And he’d never stop blaming himself if I don’t “make it” as an artist. Which is such shit, because honestly that stuff really is in the lap of the gods. I’ve seen work by ‘world renowned’ artists that I wouldn’t hang in my toilet. And work by people no one has ever heard of that I think is brilliant. It’s just … luck, a lot of the time.

But he talked to me and made me see how badly it would fuck things up if I didn’t go. It’s crazy, but the way I have to prove to him that he can believe in me, can have faith in me, is to leave him. At least for these few months.

I just don’t know how I’m going to stand it.

But now we’re at the dinner, and all our friends and weird little family are in there and we have tonight to show them how together we are,

Because we are. We really are.

And tonight they’re all going to see it. 

***

Brian

It’s been a hellish day at work. Stupid fucking client changing their mind at the last minute about what they fucking want. By the time I get home I’ve got a bitch of a headache and all I want to do is to have a shower and a drink and forget the day ever happened.

So when I first get home, I’m glad that he’s quiet.

But when he doesn’t join me in the shower, I start wondering, and when I come out and he’s sitting staring into space I know something’s fucking not right.

When he tells me, I almost want to laugh. Fucking typical! I just start getting my shit together and now this. But I’ve promised myself that I won’t interfere, that I’ll let him make his own decisions, so I just take him to bed and distract us both from our worries. Besides, it doesn’t sound that big a deal to me - just another form of school really, and I think he’s past that.

But the next day both Lindsay and the she-dog she lives with take turns in telling me what a totally selfish prick I’d be if I let him give up this opportunity. Linsday especially keeps on about what a great reputation the place has for discovering new artists and how it’s such an honor and such a great chance to get exposure in New York, and all that shit.

So when I get home, I sit him down for a chat.

At first he’s all, “oh, it’s no big deal” about it, but when I call him on that he comes clean and says that he just doesn’t think it’s the right time.

“The right time for you, as an artist, or the right time for us?” I ask.

He goes very quiet then. So I have to do it, I have to push him.

“Sunshine,” I tell him, “since the beginning … what’s worked for us … is that we go for it … everything … no second best, no holding back.

“When we started, and I wouldn’t give you the time of day … you just came after me. At Babylon, at Woody's, you were there, in my face, you wouldn’t let me walk away.

“You went for it with that damned fucking club, with Hobbs, with the … when you asked me to your fucking Prom. We danced in front of all the fucking straights and you mightn’t remember it, but we were fucking fabulous.”

I want to stop there, to just remember for one moment how fucking beautiful he was that night, not to think of the rest … but … I can’t stop … I have to make sure he understands this.

“We went for it with Stockwell, and yes it cost me my fucking job, and you your college career but we did it anyway.”

He mumbles something, his head down, and I grab his chin and make him look at me for a moment before I acknowledge it … “Yes, even with the fucking fiddler.”

He bites his lip and I give him a wolf grin.

“Do you seriously think we’d be here, where we are today, how we are today, if you’d gone on putting up with all my shit? If you hadn’t had the balls to leave. And the even bigger balls it took to come back?”

He looks into my eyes for a long moment and then gives me a ghost of a smile. But the devil is back in his blue eyes.

“When I found out about the cancer …” he stiffens again, his hands tightening their grip on my hips. I look right into his eyes.

“I was tempted to fucking bail,” I tell him bluntly. “But I didn’t. I took it on. And you took me on, and we battled our way through it.

“You went for it in LA, and even if the fucking assholes let it drop, you still put yourself on the line for it. And we fucking learned that we can survive a few fucking months apart if we have to.”

He looks at me then, all right. Because he knows what a chicken shit I am, and how close I came to giving up on us. But he has to know that I learned something in those fucking months he was away.

“The thing is, whenever something has come along, we’ve taken it on. We’ve never backed away from anything, never turned our backs on a challenge.”

I grip his shoulders even harder.

“Justin … that’s what makes us who we are … it’s what makes us work. We can’t change the way we operate now. That’s what will make us fucking fall apart. If we start backing away from the challenges.”

His eyes fill up then and he leans against me and then all I can do is hold him.

That’s all I want to do for the rest of the week.

But he has to get fucking organized. Aside from finding somewhere to live (which turns out to be with some friend of Daphne’s because he won’t fucking let me pay for a decent damned place), he needs to get his art stuff shipped and all sorts of shit.

Cynthia’s replacement helps to organize all that. It hadn’t fucking occurred to me that promoting her would mean that I didn’t have her to rely on but the new one is sufficiently terrified to be on the ball.

But all week there’s doesn’t seem to be a moment when we’re not in the middle of organizing something - the house purchase, the fucking insurance, some in home nursing for Mikey, his move, this fucking dinner.

Everything.

And now it’s Friday night, and the dinner, and tomorrow we’ll spend together and then Sunday …

But I’m not going to think about that now. Right now we’re going to host this dinner, and show off the photos of our fucking new house, and tell them about this glittering new career opportunity that’s come up for him and make like it’s all according to plan.

Which maybe it is. Someone’s plan.

But it’s sure as fuck not mine.

Because the only plan I’ve had in my head since he got back from LA was to somehow keep him here. Only I can’t do that.

I have to let him go. Have to smile and wave goodbye and make him believe that I believe he’ll be back.

Otherwise he won’t leave, and I couldn’t live with that.

Oh, well. Right now it’s showtime.

 

 

*****

 

**Epilogue**

Justin

I’ve been in New York nearly a month when I hear about Lindsay and Mel.

Apparently they’d been planning their move from even before I started planning mine. Not that I had much time to plan. But they did. They listed the house and everything before they even discussed it with Brian and Michael. And then did the whole ‘oh, we won’t go if you don’t agree’ thing. Except that when Brian didn’t agree, Lindsay guilted him into it.

None of which I even knew until Debbie called me to bitch about them.

I was so fucking angry. I still am. Brian eventually called and talked to me about it last night. After they’d left. Not that he said much. But I know how gutted he must be.

If he wasn’t due to arrive this evening for the weekend I’d … 

I don’t know. I’d nothing. That’s the most fucking frustrating part. Brian had to say goodbye to Gus yesterday and who knows when he’ll see him again and I can’t do any fucking thing about it without making it worse.

Because, like I have to keep reminding myself, Brian doesn’t have any rights to Gus at all. No right to say that they can’t take his son off to another country. No right to demand to be allowed to visit him. Nothing.

So that pair of cunts can just take Gus and ask Brian to stay away for “a while” so that Gus can get settled and neither of us can do anything, because if we call them on their shit they can just tell us to stay away permanently, never let Brian see his son at all.

Fuck!

I used to really like Lindsay, and Mel was okay, most of the time. 

But this is all such shit.

And I’m stuck here in New York and the only thing I can do is be here. I mean, when Brian comes to me, I can be here for him. At least, coming here, he can get away from all this shit and we can just be together, and try to forget everything else for a while. A bit like it was in Chicago.

Except there, part of it was knowing that we were going home and getting the house and really getting on with being together. 

But here … here I lie awake all night beside Brian, not wanting to go to sleep and miss one single moment of being with him. Because when he goes home on Monday, I won't be with him. Not for a fucking truckload lot of Mondays.

They talk about ‘if you love something, set it free’, but no one ever talks about how it feels to be the one set free - how you have to break your heart and fly away just to prove that you’ll come home again.

But because I love Brian, and because I understand that he needs me to be all I can be … 

All I can do is try to make this work, try to be some sort of success here, and make him proud of me.

And more than anything, try to hold it together, hold us both together, till it’s time for me to come home. 

Like Brian says, “It’s only time.”

I can only hope he’s right.


End file.
